Me Without You
by kkolmakov
Summary: Two years after the Battle of the Five Armies, Wren of Enedwaith, a young healer of Men comes to the City of Dale. Dale and Esgaroth have been restored, Dain Ironfoot rules Erebor, and life is abundant and peaceful. The King Thorin II rests in a tomb of white stone under his Mountain. Who is the Dwarf with piercing blue eyes Wren sees in her dreams? [Thorin x my usual OC, Wren]
1. Chapter 1

On an early Spring morning, two years after the Battle of Five Armies, Wren of Enedwaith, a young healer of Men entered the quickly restoring city of Dale, carrying her heavy sack behind her back. The air was crisp and fresh, streets already full of busy crowds, carts and travellers rushing by.

It was not hard to find the city infirmary, a tall building of yellow stone, and by the end of the first day, Wren had her position as a healer's apprentice, helping the Chief Healer. She hardly needed any additional education in her craft, but surely the old healer could not accept a fresh girl, who looked as if she were twelve, as his new surgeon. Her knowledge and skills, though, were unprecedented, and in the month that came she was given more and more responsibilities. She was also quiet, modest, her character even and morals untarnished. She wore the healer's robe, her odd hair of the brightest orange were braided in a stern do around her head, she wore no jewellery and was not known to associate with any men in town. The latter was one of her main merits in the eyes of the Chief Healer. Young girls from all Arda flocked to Dale to find themselves a husband, the city was flourishing, trade blooming between it and the City of Erebor, ruled by the renown war hero Dain Ironfoot, while many barrels and crates were shipped down the lake and the river to the Greenwood the Great, to the halls of the Elvenking Thranduil. It was the time of restoration and joy, and youth was as though inebriated by the hunger for life and love. There were weddings each week, and sometimes the Chief Healer felt he did nothing else but delivered babies in the city.

Wren of Enedwaith showed astonishing proficiency in midwifery as well as excellent skills in surgery. She was also endlessly industrious, she would work three shifts, and was still ready to join him at night to assist him in a complicated delivery. And for the first time in his service the Chief Healer lamented that one of his healers was never to leave his infirmary for the sake of starting a family. Wren, he thought, deserved such happiness, but he had very little hope for it. She was so obviously unattractive and odd that even drunk bargemen delivered to the infirmary to sober up and patch up their broken noses would show little interest in her. She was slender, almost sickly looking, had a body of a child, as well as strange copper hair, in an unruly curly mop around her head. Her face was angular, and her red mouth was excessively wide. Unlike other female healers in his infirmary she never decorated herself, the rest tried to enliven the dull, fern green attire with jewellery or at least expensive shoes, while she wore practical boots and possessed no necklaces, and no rings were ever seen on her tiny hands that matched her height just like her minuscule feet. She was as tall as most Dwarves visiting the city, although thrice as narrow.

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><p>Two months after her arrival Wren was in the inn she was renting a room at, and a drunk merchant grabbed her upper arm.<p>

"Common, little fish, give us a kiss!" She jerked her arm out of his grasp, she was surprisingly strong for her size, but the man's mate was behind her, and she bumped into him.

"Why do you bother with this one?" The second one spat out, giving her a derisive look. "What a minger!"

"The more grateful she'll be for a bit warmth," the first one disgustingly licked his lips, and that was when Wren kneed him in the most sensitive areas. Years of medical practice helped her to determine the weakest spot and to ensure the most prominent success. The drunkard hollered and fell on the ground. The second one raised his fist to punch her, when a bottle landed on his head with a loud shattering noise, and he joined his companion.

"Pigs," the voice of the woman still holding the neck of the bottle was disdainful, and Wren stared at her in admiration. She was tall and the most exquisite beauty Wren had ever seen. Chestnut waves were scattered on her shoulders, her bosom opulent, curves enticing, she had magnificent brown eyes framed with thick black lashes, her lips full and bright pink.

"I'm Thea," the young woman introduced herself to Wren, who hurriedly returned the favour. The women smiled to each other, Wren stepped over the unconscious bodies, and joined Thea and her twenty three friends in the common room. Thea was a wine girl, which meant she travelled with merchants, looking after their supplies and tending to their needs, cooking and mending their clothes and taking care of their laundry. That was the day when Wren found herself the best friend she could have ever dreamt of, and the jolly crowd of winegirls had taken her under their wing.

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><p>Wren loved her new life in the city of Dale. She loved the small room in the inn, the large oaktree growing under her window, her busy days in the infirmary. She had come to Dale looking for peace and purpose, and although mawkishness was not in her character she felt as if something had called for her, had driven her to leave her service in Ithilien and travel here. She fell into habit of wandering the streets on the days she was free, chatting with vendors, playing with children, but with each passing day it was becoming more and more evident to her that the city was not satisfying her strange longing, and some unfamiliar thirst was growing in her heart. Her eyes would fall on the horizon more and more often, and sometimes, on very early mornings, she would sit on the sill of her window, her eyes on the dark and intimidating lines of the Lonely Mountain.<p>

City of Erebor had been restored just like Dale and Esgaroth, and the most inconceivable rumours were surrounding the life of the Dwarven Kingdom. The Khazad, as they were called in their mysterious throaty language, kept to themselves, although their relationships with Men and Elves were amicable, though rather detached. They were often seen in the streets on both cities of Men, and merchants from all Middle Earth would travel to the Dwarven city. They were accepted in the visitors' parlours but never allowed deeper into the Mountain. And there was one thought that would not leave Wren's mind. The Erebor Library, which was said to survive the sixty years of the Dragon Smaug's tyranny and the war, was to be the most extensive and well-guarded source of knowledge in the Middle Earth, only to be compared to the library halls of the Elvenking. And the more Wren thought of it, the more she craved to have at least one peek.

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><p>"My darling," Thea sauntered into Wren's room and regally sat on the bed near her friend. Wren lifted her eyes from the book she was absorbed into. Thea's eyes were shining, and she smiled to Wren impishly, "Tell me I am the best friend a bookworm such as yourself can dream of!"<p>

"You are the best friend anyone can dream of," Wren laughed and looked at her friend warmly, "But what is it all about?"

"A wonderful person as I am, I have acquired the passage to the Dwarven city for you, my love," Thea's voice was triumphant, and Wren pressed her hands to her mouth, "One of the merchants that had arrived from Bree last week, bringing wine to Erebor, is ill, or will have fallen ill, once I am done with him, and they require a healer to accompany them to Erebor."

It could seem almost impossible for two women with such different conducts to be friends, but Wren always appreciated Thea and never judged her, though she could hardly share Thea's sentiments towards promiscuity. Thea changed lovers every night, Wren had only had one. And yet, Wren could not wish for a better friend. She squealed in elation and threw her arms around Thea's neck. She would see Erebor! Her heart fluttered and some unfamiliar anticipative agitation clasped at her heart!

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><p>The night before the visit Wren could not fall asleep, she tossed and turned, and when she finally fell into some strange heavy slumber, odd disturbing dreams were wandering her mind. She saw dark menacing halls, tall stone walls, dim lights throwing shadows on the floor and giant statues in rows. She could not quite see the lines and shapes, everything seemed hazed and subdued, and then a large shape stepped out of the darkness, and Wren understood she was in catacombs.<p>

A colossal tomb lay in front of her eyes, white stone and a statue on its lid, a figure of a Dwarf, carved with astonishing precision, a sword and a strange shield placed on his unmoving chest. She stepped closer, her eyes greedily drinking in the noble severe feature of his face, and then she looked at the sword, a surprisingly elegant and fine blade for a Khazad warrior and an even more astonishing shield that looked like nothing else but a thick branch of a tree.

Wren woke up with a gasp, her heart painfully beating in her throat, she was pressing her hands to her mouth, silencing a scream that was to erupt out of her. It was time to go down and join the merchants, and she quickly dressed as if still in her dream, her hands shaking, and breathing frantic.

It was the day when Wren of Enedwaith entered Erebor for the first time.

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><p><strong>AN: My darling readers, BoFA is coming!**

**For those of you who haven't read my stories: Wren is my usual OC, there are several timelines, there are several Wrens and several Thorins. This is Wren from Timeline #1, the very first original Wren. You can consult "Thorin's Timeline" if you feel like reading the original stories in their chronological order or you can just follow the description of the stories.**

**For those of you who read my stories: Do you trust me?**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: My lovelies, if you are interested, in the original Timeline #1 this corresponds to Chapter 8 in "Thorin's Return to Shire" *sob***

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><p>Wren was lost. She could not believe it, but the very first forbidden and reckless act she had ever dared in her life led her into so much trouble that she was shaking from fear and embarrassment. She was scolding herself, for leaving the merchants behind, for quietly escaping the watchful eyes of the guard, for sneaking through some door, and venturing into exploring the adjoint halls. Now she was lost, and quite obviously the hall around her was not destined to be seen by any Men.<p>

There were weapons and armour decorating walls, it seemed to be some sort of a memorial, the items on the walls were damaged, though cleaned and polished, some were broken and pieces placed together on shelves, on velvet and silk. The rows of stone tables and shelves led to the large statue at the back of the hall, and items closer to it were more opulent and cherishable looking than the ones by the entrance. Wren momentarily thought that she were to leave, she was quite obviously intruding, and judging by the reverence the placement of objects was breathing with, she was perhaps committing a sacrilege. And yet her body as if against her will carried her ahead, she was slowly approaching the large stone table at the furthest wall, at the feet of the colossal statue.

When she stopped in front of the stone giant, she could not lift her eyes, her heart was beating painfully, and she glanced at the armour in front of her. It was opulent, heavy, worthy of a King. There was a cracked breastplate, of golden and silver, sharp angular ridges on it, large pauldrons and gauntlets, and she shortly wondered just how much strength resided in the body such armour had been protecting. She then saw an octagon shield, broken in two, both halves placed on the dark blue velvet, and finally a wide Dwarven sword.

And that was when she lifted her face and looked at the statue above her. A Dwarven warrior, clad in the replica of the armour she could see in front of her, a heavy crown on his long wavy locks, a stern proud expression on his noble face, stood in a powerful menacing pose, his hands locked on the plummet of the very same wide Dwarven sword. He was portrayed as looking ahead, his lips set in a cantankerous line, brows frowned, and Wren could not tear her eyes off his profile. She realised there were tears running down her face only when a few salty drops brushed at her trembling lips.

"What are you doing here?" A firm low voice behind her made her whirl on her heels, and she squeaked terrified. An old Dwarf was standing behind her, his forked beard was white, and his round sturdy body was clad in a lavish dark velvet attire.

"Pardon me, my lord, I was lost… I came with merchants, and then I got… lost..." She was shaking and hurriedly wiped the tears off her face. "I meant no disrespect..." Her voice broke, and to her ultimate mortification she sniffed. The Dwarf studied her face, she knew her eyes were red and already puffy, and she bit into her bottom lip from abashment.

"This is King Thorin II, that is his armour, the one he wore into his last battle," the Dwarf approached her, and she realised he was not looking at her. His eyes were on the face of the statue, and she saw genuine warmth and melancholy in his features.

"Thorin Oakenshield," she breathed out, recalling the war stories she had been hearing in the four months of her residing in Dale.

"Yes, Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thrain, son of Thror, King Under the Mountain," the Dwarf dropped his eyes on the armour, and she saw his eyebrows twitch in distress. "He would need a different blade though..."

Something stirred in Wren's memory, something from a dream, and then suddenly she could clearly see the white tombstone from last night, and the svelte curved blade she saw. And then she recalled the tales from the war.

"Orcrist, the Goblin Cleaver..." She could not believe her own impudence, but the Dwarf had warm kind eyes, and somehow she felt she was allowed to talk freely in his presence. He nodded, sadness colouring his features, and Wren did not know herself where the sobs came from. She felt her body quake, as if sharp pain piercing through her chest, and she took a few spasmodic breaths in. The room swam in front of her eyes, the world keeled, and through the veil of her tears she looked at the stone face of the King. She swayed and grabbed the edge of a table to her right. It had some maps and parchments displayed on it, and she squeezed her eyes shut.

"Are you unwell, lass?" The Dwarf stepped closer and supported her.

"I apologise, I do not know… What came over me… Forgive me..."

"Quite alright, it is quite alright, I hate this room myself..." He grasped her under her elbow and softly led her out of the hall. She heavily leaned onto him, she would agonise over her undecorous behaviour later, her knees were shaking, and soon enough they were standing in front of the door she initially had slipped out of.

She was feeling much better, clarity of mind returning to her, and she felt endlessly ashamed of her faint and her bathos. She started apologising again, but he patted her hand and gave her a slightly mischievous, warm look.

"Thorin had such effect on impressionable maidens," he chuckled, and Wren blushed furiously. She never considered herself such, she deemed herself sober and practical and lacking any sentimentality, but she reckoned it was perhaps time to reconsider. "Quite a dashing lad he was. And tall, and those eyes!" The Dwarf gave her a wink, and she giggled. That was astonishing as well, she never thought such a girlish act to be in her nature.

She gave him a low bow, thanked him again for his kindness and lenience, and placed her hand on the door. He turned around to leave, and then she heard her own voice, "What colour were they?" The Dwarf looked at her in surprise and a certain amount of amusement, and she felt her cheekbones burn almost painfully, "His eyes, what colour were they?" He remained silent for a few instances, and then she saw his face waver.

"Blue, they were blue. Like Ered Luin sapphires." She thought she saw tears in the eyes of the old Dwarf, and then he was gone. She pushed the door and joined her companions. It was time to return to Dale.

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><p>Wren rushed into her room in the inn and fell on the bed. She curled in a small ball, pulling her knees to her nose and covering with her head by the blanket. She wanted to ponder what had transpired in the Erebor halls, her mind frantically grasping to find the meaning of it, and of the dream she had had. As sentimental and mauldin as she had shown herself earlier, Wren praised herself on having discipled mind. Surely, there had been a reasonable explanation to that. Perhaps, she had been overworking, and her mind exhausted and sleep deprived had cooked up such concoction of images and sensations, and after becoming overly emotional in the mountain halls she was now twisting the memories of her dream, appropriating the images to fit what she had seen in Erebor.<p>

She rolled on her back, linked her fingers on her stomach and took a deep breath. And as she was seemingly calming down, a loud knock to her door announced the arrival of her friend.

"Tell me everything! You do know how interested I am in mountain dwellers!" Thea jumped on Wren's bed and shook her friend's shoulders. By then Wren was aware of Thea's pursuit for carnal diversity, which also included unsuccessful attempts to charm every passing by Dwarf, and quite often she had to shush Thea's racy fantasies, which the chestnut haired beauty felt like loudly sharing in the common room. "I once spent two hours watching a Dwarf hammering in a forge," Thea was gesturing animatedly, and Wren squealed and hid her face in a pillow, "Maiar help me, the arms, and the shoulders, and the chest!" Thea outlined the muscular shapes in the air, and Wren felt heady blush spill on her cheeks. By then she also knew that it was easier to go with the conversation Thea led as opposed to trying to stop her.

"What was he forging?"

"What does it matter?! He went on for two hours! Can you imagine the stamina?! And the size of the hammer!" Wren snorted. "Speaking about being on the anvil!"

"You are hopeless!"

"Tell me you are not curious!" As little as such conversation matched Wren's inclinations, it was a perfect distraction from the turmoil of the past night and day.

"Honestly, Thea, my mind does not reside below my waist. It is a proud ancient race, can you imagine the richness of their knowledge? Their magic?" Thea quieted down, but Wren doubted she was thinking about the famous Erebor Library. "And no, I'm not curious, Thea. Men are the last thing on my mind." Both girls laughed, and Wren ventured into the account of her, given, embarrassing adventures, obviously omitting certain details.

When Thea finally left after their shared dinner, Wren felt so exhausted that she did not remember lying down. That was the first night when the Dwarf visited her dreams.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: The quotes from Khuzdul translation of "I See Fire" (executed by the Dwarrow Schollar, find him online, the bloke is brill!) given in Italics will signify the beginning and the end of dream sequences.**

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><p><em>Ra nî lomil tamhari, akhsigabi azâgê...  And if the night is burning, I will cover my eyes..._

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><p>Wren found herself standing in the same hall where she saw the colossal statue of the dead King, but this time a long table was in its center, surrounded by tall chairs, quite obviously intended for a council, and instead of the statue she saw a throne and behind it a large tapestry on the wall, dark blue, with an immense family tree embroidered on it. She froze in the doors, once again feeling she was intruding. The room was lit by flickering light of torches on the walls, but this time it was not cold and its air was not stale as during her actual visit. Wren felt warm, and strangely enough she caught the smell of her favourite lilacs in the air, as if summer breeze had brought their fragrance in a light rush from bushes by the road.<p>

By the wall in the shadows there stood a Dwarf, she could hardly see him, just his wide powerful silhouette, and then she stepped inside. She felt strangely calm and joyous, as if meeting an old friend, perhaps because she quite clearly saw it was nothing but a dream.

He turned to her and stepped into the light. He was clad in a thin, dark blue tunic and linen trousers, barefoot, his hair scattered on his shoulders, and he gave her an irritated yet uncertain look.

"What are you doing in my halls, naith?" The word was unfamiliar, and Wren shortly wondered if it were even possible to speak an unknown language in one's own dream.

She felt like quipping back and asking him what he was doing in her dream, but then she bowed to him and answered politely, "Forgive me, my lord, I did not want to intrude..."

"I do not remember this room..." He interrupted her, though probably not speaking to her, and slowly turned around, his bright blue eyes roaming the hall, and that was when she recognised him. Her breathing hitched, and she made a small step back.

The profile was noble, the nose long and prominent, he was frowning, and a wrinkle lay between his thick black brows. He had a surprisingly soft line of lips, and she could not remember it being portrayed such in stone. She felt it was almost amusing that her mind created such fantasy, giving him certain softness of features. The beard was thick and black, but there was plenty of silver in his hair, especially in the soft waves above his forehead, and she tried to remember how old he was when he fell. According to the war stories, around two hundred, she thought. Mature age, but not yet old for a Khazad.

Right now, in her dream, he seemed tall for a Dwarf, perhaps an inch taller than her, she remembered the words of the old Dwarf in Erebor. She suppressed a smile. She indeed always found men with larger, more imposing build more attractive, but most Men were compared to her, she was very small. She wondered what sort of vanity resided in her to make a Dwarf in her dream still taller than her.

And suddenly, and as it always were to be in a dream, without much continuity, he was standing in front of her, his glare burning and apprehensive, "Where am I, girl?"

"Erebor, my King," she did not know where the moniker came from, but he froze, searching her face for some answers, and then he swayed back from her.

"But I am not… Why am I in Erebor? Am I not to enter Itdendum?" Torturous pain splashed into the lines of his face, bewilderment and terror, so unbecoming his noble features, made Wren stretch her hand to him, in an impulsive desire to console, "Have I not fought with honour?.." He was looking into her face, but she had no answers for him. And again, it was just a dream.

She was going to tell him so, when he shifted his eyes on the tapestry behind them, and murmured, "Radm khama amnas yud ni Itdendum..."

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><p><em>Ra adjini tada zasaziliki e...  I'll hope you'll remember me…_

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><p>Wren sat up on her bed sharply, hot tears running down her face, her body quaking, breathing laboured. She pulled her blanket to her chin and let herself cry. It was just a dream, she repeated to herself, but the piercing pity she felt for him, so lost and so confused, as if almost abased, made her rock on her bed, her arms wrapped around her knees. Once her sobs subsided, she had her decision.<p>

The next three days she worked in the infirmary, but her mind had been set, and once she was even asked by the Chief Healer whether something was ailing her. She apologised for being distracted and brought her mind back onto her everyday responsibilities.

The morning of the fourth day came, she put on her healer's robe, and walked to the inn known to accommodate the richest merchants coming to the city. The Khazad from Erebor would often have ale with their relatives coming from the Iron Hills in its common room, and she entered the big hall, clenching her fists, but her head set proudly.

The room was full of people of all races, loudly talking, loud coarse laughter was heard from the corner occupied by Northmen. Wren came up to the innkeeper, a red cheeked jolly man, who immediately bowed to her. Healers were a respectable profession, and she once again praised herself for the good sense of wearing her robe.

"What can I do you for, honourable healer?" Wren took a deep breath in and decided to trust the innkeeper's discretion.

"I am looking for a trustworthy Khazad to discuss a sensitive matter," her voice wavered, but she quickly gathered her courage, "Could I rely on your judgement, kind sir?" The innkeeper gave her a long attentive look, but she knew one could hardly suspect her in lewdness or trickery when judging by her looks.

"There, in the corner," the innkeeper discreetly pointed at two Dwarves sitting at a table and loudly guffawing at some joke, "Most would not talk to you, but those are jolly fellows. Try talking to them." She thanked him wholeheartedly and turned around. "And, fair maiden?" She gave him a look over her shoulder. "Worry not, I will keep an eye on you." She smiled to him and gratefully nodded. It was a nice sentiment, but unlike the man she did not share the prejudice against the Khazad most Men still carried in their hearts. Besides, she knew one could hardly summon it from her small frame and modest healer's robe, but she could take care of herself. She had been living on the road for many years.

She approached the table in the corner and timidly smiled to the two Dwarves that stopped talking and looked at her. She had always admired the complicated dos and the beard and moustache braids of the Khazad, but the hair of the first one was bordering to almost ridiculous. More than anything he reminded her of a sea star, three tall ridges of his hair standing upright on his head. He was also a ginger like her, his beard was braided into three plaits, with long beads on their ends. He had lively sparkling eyes and gave her a slightly mischievous, benevolent look. The second one looked even friendlier, he was wearing a strange two eared hat that was sitting askew on his head, his moustache was long and dark, and while she was gathering her will to speak, he gave her a wink with his laughing hazel eye.

"Good day, honourable Dwarves, I apologise for disturbing you..." She had to clear her throat from acute abashment, but they gave her encouraging smiles, and then the one in the hat pushed a stool towards her.

"No disturbance, lass, do sit down. What can we help you with?" She smiled to him gratefully and sat down.

"My name is Wren of Enedwaith, kind sirs, and I have a question to ask."


	4. Chapter 4

"Honourable Dwarves, I would like to start with telling you that in no way I intend to offend or intrude on the secrecy of your people and the ancient culture of the Khazad," she stared at her hands locked on the table in front of her, "And I understand that the matter I came to you with is of sensitive manner, and could almost be conceived as thoughtless meddling..." She stuttered over her prepared speech, and suddenly the dark haired Dwarf laughed joyously.

"You are quite a wordy lass, aren't you, honourable healer? Why don't you just tell us what you need? We are not the ones to judge," he winked to his companion. "My friend here, Nori, is very fond of sensitive, intrusive matters, as you said," both Dwarves chuckled, "And my name is Bofur. So what worries you, honourable healer?" Wren took a deep breath in and ventured into her inquiry.

"I have heard a phrase in the Dwarven language, Khuzhdul…" She was hoping she was pronouncing it right. "But I cannot tell you where and in what circumstances. And I need to know the meaning of it, if it has any." She looked between two Dwarves, who quickly exchanged surprised glances. She decided she had little to lose, she inhaled and spoke, "Radm khama amnas yud ni Itdendum." The throaty words fell from her lips with ease, she could not believe herself how clearly she remembered them, and judging by the astonished faces of the men at the table it was not gibberish, as she perhaps secretly hoped.

"And do we gather it right, you will not tell us where you heard it?" The red haired Dwarf spoke for the first time, his face serious, and she firmly met his eyes and shook her head.

"It means 'The reward for loyalty is a place in the Hall of Awaiting', it is an old saying." The one called Bofur answered slowly, studying her face, "It is also said at the funeral ceremonies of the Dwarven warriors who fell in battle." Wren felt her heart clench. It was not meaningless. She pressed a hand to her lips and took a few slow breaths in.

"Was this phrase said at the funeral ceremony of King Thorin II?" She asked next, having governed her emotions. She saw the faces of the Dwarves grow even more solemn, and then the one called Nori nodded.

"Mahal, it has been two years already," the other Dwarf suddenly mumbled, "More perhaps. I can still remember it so clearly..."

"You were there?" Wren asked greedily, and because she needed to know and was worried she was losing her sanity, she whispered, "Is he buried in a white tomb, his Elven blade placed on it, and his oaken branch shield carved on its lid?"

"How do you know of that?" The red-haired Dwarf's voice was suddenly sharp, "No one but Khazad were to see it, and none of us would speak."

"Bard was there," the one called Bofur spoke darkly, "And the halfling, rumours were to spread, Nori. To say nothing of the Elves." The Dwarves picked up their mugs and took large gulps of their ale.

"Did you know him? King Thorin? When he lived?" A heavy pause hung above their table, and then Nori suddenly smiled widely.

"Sometimes more than we wished." Wren and Bofur looked at him in astonishment. "Like those nights when he would make us sleep on the cold ground when we would camp on the road. Or when he would not let us start fire and our teeth would chatter at night until we felt we would lose all of them." He chuckled, and the other Dwarf joined him. Wren stared at them in astonishment. They apparently were very much familiar with the King, and what a picture they drew!

"Or when he would always put me on the first look out, and I would miss dinner, and had to eat it cold afterwards," Bofur joined his friend's frolics, his hazel eyes sparkling, and Wren could not understand whether it was laughter or tears twinkling in them, "You see, lass, he had not always been the King Under the Mountain. There was time when he was just… Thorin." And Wren understood that those were indeed tears, as suddenly one shining drop rolled down Bofur's cheek.

They sat in silence for a few minutes, the Dwarves drinking, Wren recalling her dreams, and then the one called Nori shook his head and cleared his throat.

"You are quite an oddity, Wren of Enedwaith." She looked at him in surprise. "Making us speak so openly. Pray to Mahal you are not asking it out of trite curiosity." She shook her head and gave him a serious look.

"I am not, honourable Dwarf," she got up and gave them a low bow. "I thank you for your kindness and your openness, kind sirs. And may Maiar shine on your path!" She gave them the formal goodbye of Men, not knowing the appropriate words of the Khazad for such occasion.

"May we meet again with the grace of Mahal," answered the one called Nori, and Bofur gave her a kind smile. She bowed again and left the inn. She had her answer.

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><p>The City of Dale had only one library, the collection of books previously having belonged to the former Master of Laketown, and currently the volumes were moved in a small hall adjoined to the house of the King of Dale, Bard the Bowman. Anybody was allowed to use the books, though Wren doubted many did. She found the building empty, with the exception of an old librarian, frail and slightly senile.<p>

Many books were written on the culture and the religion of the Khazad, as the history of the three towns had been so tightly intertwined for many centuries, and Wren spent every free minute she had in the next two weeks flipping through the pages of the dusty volumes.

According to the Khazad, those who had fallen in a battle were to be buried, but not burnt, and their spirits were believed to pass into the Halls of Awaiting, called Itdendum in Khuzdul, just like Men, but in the halls set apart for them by Mahal, the Maker, the Father of Dwarves.

Among other books Wren found several new volumes, describing the events of the Quest of Erebor and the Battle of the Five Armies. In astonishment she realised that she had the honour of speaking with two member of the original company of Thorin Oakenshield that day in the inn. She also found a parchment that described the history of the legendary sword of the Dwarven King, and a large volume describing the War for Moria and the Battle of Azanulbizar, in which King Thorin had lost his grandfather and his brother, and acquired his moniker Oakenshield. Wren found a drawing of the shield, made of a single oaken branch, and recognised it from her very first dream.

She seemingly started understanding more about these dreams, but their meaning was alluding her. She wondered what she was to do with her new knowledge and what was the purpose of what had transpired.

Wren found portraits, he was indeed a handsome man. Wren hardly placed any judgement on the differences between the races, she did not find Dwarven opulent hair and sturdy, wide frame unattractive like most of the women she served with, but she thought that even those denying the allure of the Khazad would agree King Thorin was an enticing man. In one of the volumes she found a sketch made by one of the company members, a young Dwarf named Ori. The King was portrayed sitting on a large boulder, his eyes on the horizon, and Wren spent a long time studying the lines of his profile and that very soft line of lips she had previously thought her imagination had conjured.

And then days flew by, seemingly the same but full of service and hundreds of small matters to attend, and she was starting to doubt whether the dreams had even been real, when one night she found herself in the same halls.

* * *

><p><em>Ra nî lomil tamhari, akhsigabi azâgê...  And if the night is burning, I will cover my eyes..._

* * *

><p>This time Wren found herself outside the large wooden doors leading into the hall. She felt as if she was being given a choice, whether to come in, and she was certain of whom she would find inside, or walk away. She stood, her small hand on a thick brass ring of the door handle, and she saw her fingers tremble.<p>

And then she remember the lost and terrified expression, betrayal and humiliation splashing in his piercing blue eyes, and she pulled the heavy leaf of the door, and entered.

He stood his back to her, in the same attire, his head dropped back as he was studying the tapestry on the wall, and she looked as well. Dain I was the name embroidered above the simplified depiction of a stern bearded face, the lines went down, to his three sons, and then forked, with Thorin III, son of Dain Ironfoot, being on the lowest of the branches.

"Fili and Kili..." His voice was low and raspy, and she clenched her fists. He stepped to the tapestry and brushed his fingers to the names of his nephews, "There are no names after them..." He was still facing away from her, and she lowered her eyes.

"They fell. In the battle with you."

"I do not remember..." His voice broke, and she assumed by a soft rustle that he turned to her, "I do not remember the battle, just how we charged from the mountain..."

Her throat was clenched, and suddenly she felt his presence near her. She inhaled gathering her courage and lifted her eyes. His jaw was set, and she was shocked to see rage splashing in his eyes.

"Who are you?" His tone was menacing and commanding, and even though overwhelmed she jerked her chin up in defiance.

"Wren of Enedwaith, a healer from the city of Dale."


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: This chapter is still a dream sequence, and still has references to "Thorin's Return to Shire" Chapter 8, but once again, that is quite a different story, isn't it?**

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><p>"Healer from Dale?.." Disbelief laced his voice, "Is the city restored? How long...?"<p>

"It has been two years since the Battle of the Five Armies, my lord," Wren saw his face waver, and the knots of muscles played on his jaw.

"Five armies..." He turned away from her and placed one hand on the back of the nearest chair. He was clearly supporting himself, and she stepped closer. "Dain, Thranduil, Bard, Orcs, and Wargs..." She nodded, but was certain he did not see. His eyes were on the surface of the table, his knuckles white on the wood of the chair. She gave him time but she needed to know.

"Why are you coming, honourable King? Into my dreams. Do you need anything from me? Do I need to do something?"

"Are we in your dream?" He looked at her over his shoulder, in confusion.

"And where do you think we are?" He turned around, and she saw his lips set in a stubborn derisive line.

"As you claimed before, honourable healer, we are in Erebor, though I do not recall this hall..."

"What happens when I leave?" She interrupted him and immediately shied away from her own insolence. He gave her an almost amused look, one of his eyebrows twitched, and suddenly she noticed how attractive he was. Once his face lost the angry expression, she could not help but admire the prominent profile and the luscious black beard. He gave her an attentive look over.

"You are a healer from Dale, and we are in your dream, and apparently... I am dead," his tone was astonishingly even, and she shifted between her feet. "Am I not, fair maiden?" Her discomfort seemed to entertain him. He pointed at the tapestry, there were dates of birth and death embroidered under the simplistic portraits of the Heirs of Durin. "So, honourable healer, have I fallen in the battle?"

"Yes," her answer was hardly audible. He was purposefully perturbing her, and she felt her temper rising though she was trying to collect herself.

"Yes, and now you are claiming we are in your dream…" He gave her another, slightly disdainful look, "Answering your previous question, I do not know… I do not remember the minutes when you are not here… I remember your previous visit, it was like a flash… Then darkness, and then you opened the door again..." He was speaking more and more quietly, and then he heavily sat on the nearest chair. Frustrated frown froze on his face.

"My lord," she cleared her throat and stopped much closer. She craved to touch his shoulder, to show him her compassion, but she felt it would be impudent. And she did not know if she would be able to touch him at all. "Last time you pronounced a phrase in Khuzdul, I had not been familiar with it, and I spoke to Khazad," she decided to emit the names of the Dwarves, not to distress him further, "And they explained the meaning to me."

"Radm khama amnas yud ni Itdendum," his voice was hollow, he folded his arms on his chest, and looked at her apprehensively.

"The reward for loyalty is a place in the Hall of Awaiting," Wren spoke softly.

"And apparently I do not deserve any," his tone was suddenly harsh, and she looked at him in confusion. "Otherwise, how can this be explained?" He gestured around himself. "I am stuck in a hall in Erebor, which I am never to rule, and my only companion is a scrap of a girl of Men." His tone was venomous, and enraged blush spilled on her cheeks.

"Pardon?" She could not believe her ears. King or not, she would not allow anyone to treat her this way!

"Are you to argue with me on any of these points, my lady?" His tone was venomous, the look of her gracial eyes contemptuous, and she was quickly losing her composure. He insulted her! And to think of it, she had felt so sympathetic towards him!

"Well, since you seem to be so displeased with this arrangement," her voice was trembling from indignation, "Maybe staying here alone would serve you well, my lord," She hissed his moniker through gritted teeth and started marching to the door. "Perhaps they will send you a more worthy companion than a scrap of a girl..."

She was walking quickly, continuing to talk, her hand lay on the door, and an instant after she heard the chair creak and hasty steps behind her, he obviously had rushed after her, his large hand clasped around her upper arm.

They both froze and stared at the spot where their bodies had joined. His palm was sturdy, calloused, and very, very hot. And she could feel it. His eyes widened, and he shied away from her, letting go of her arm. She looked at the skin he touched, he was studying his palm.

"It does not feel like a dream," Wren's voice was small, and she looked at him in agitation, "In dreams everything is mellowed, softer… This felt..." His pupils were dilated, and he was still looking at his hand, when she stretched hers and placed it on his open palm tentatively. Her digits twitched when the pulps of her fingers brushed the harsh, scorching palm, and he suddenly closed his hand and squeezed hers.

"Honourable healer..." She lifted her eyes from their clasped hands and met his, remorse and some other emotion she could not name were splashing in them, "Forgive my rashness, I am not myself..." And then suddenly he chuckled, bitter lines still lying in the corners of his lips, "Mahal help me, I am my own shadow, there is all this fog in my mind… And in a maiden's dream no less..." He emitted another joyless chuckle, and then he suddenly stepped to the table and pulled her after him, still not releasing her hand. "Please, do sit down. Let us speak." His tone was soft now, and she shortly thought that he could be convincing when he wanted. He had let go of her fingers finally, she sat on the chair he had pulled out for her, and she decorously folded her hands on her lap.

"So, honourable healer… What do you think your purpose is here?"

"Mine?" She asked him, and suddenly it seemed rather entertaining to her. What a cantankerous Dwarf! Thinking everything was about him! "It is my dream, my lord, perhaps you are the one serving some unknown purpose here." This time the same brow flew much higher, in a sardonic gesture, and she had to press her lips together to hide a smile. Perhaps, he could even be considered charming.

"I would dispute with you, honourable healer, and bring up the differences in our stature as an argument but I seem to be in your power here. You can always leave, and all I will have left is waiting for your return." He had magnificent voice, low and velvet. He was teasing her, mocking her, but it felt light-hearted, and she felt different kind of blush burn on her cheekbones this time. She was not used to having conversations with men outside her service.

He also had very astute eyes, and she wondered what she must have looked like to him. And immediately she chastised herself for vanity. What sort of foolish thoughts were these? It was a dream, he was a Dwarf, and… there was no way around it, he was dead. She twitched her nose in her usual nervous habit, felt even more embarrassed by this gesture, and dropped her eyes at the her hands.

"Do you think that perhaps you are here to assist me in my passing?" He asked suddenly, and she caught underlying hopefulness in his voice. She certainly had given it a thought and eventually deemed such idea absurd.

"My lord, I am no Khazad, and with all my heart, that would be preposterous. My everyday pursuits lie in exactly the opposite. To guide people to life, and not to..."

"Death?" He finished her statement and gave her another of his sarcastic snortles. "That had been taken care, as you can see." She lifted her eyes and could not help but look him over. He was sitting reclining languishly in his chair, arms folded on his chest, in the gesture that was perhaps characteristic to him, not crossed, just one hand clasped above the elbow of the other arm. His eyes were twinkling mockingly, and she jerked her chin up.

"I do not know why I am here, and why you are here, my lord. If I was indeed placed here to assist you, they should have left clearer instructions." She spoke haughtily, and suddenly he smiled sincerely. And Wren could not suppress a mawkish thought that this smile was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen in her life. The blue eyes shiny, thick black lashes hid the irises, little wrinkles ran from the corners of his eyes.

"You are an odd little creature, honourable healer." She swallowed with difficulty, from the fluttering that his low rumble sent through her chest.

"Well, I am afraid I am all you have, my lord." As soon as this quip fell off her lips, she realised the impudence of this statement, and in horror she clasped her hands over her mouth. And then he guffawed. It was an open, white-toothed laughter, already familiar crinkles in the corners of his eyes, he dropped his head back, her eyes fell on his throat, covered by black whiskers of his beard, and he kept on chuckling, and then he looked at her, and she could not tear her eyes from the little mischievous sparkles dancing in his blue irises.

"Fair enough, honourable healer. And what shall we do about it then?"


	6. Chapter 6

Wren wriggled hands on her lap, and taking a deep breath in she spoke firmly, "I have given it a lot of thought, my lord, once I discovered that the words you had spoken to me, although unknown to me previously, did indeed have meaning. And it means you are… something more than a figment of my imagination." She lifted her eyes and met his blue ones, amusement and apprehension mixed in them.

"Do you have a habit of imagining Dwarves in your dreams, honourable healer?" His tone was sarcastic, and her cheeks flushed from embarrassment. Although he said that he felt he was in her power, she indeed could try to leave through the doors she had arrived through, she also felt he was abusing his influence upon her. His derisive mocking words hurt, and she pressed her lips in a stubborn line.

"I do not wish to discuss my personal matters with you, my lord. I have been forced into these circumstances just like you. And I wonder..." She clenched her fists, "I wonder if you could at least attempt to act with more grace towards me." She felt her throat constrict from acute discomfort, but she jerked her chin up and met his eyes. She might have been a mere healer of Men and indeed a scrap of a girl, but she had very low opinion of men in general, and men who held themselves ungrateful towards women especially.

The Dwarf in front of her stayed immobile, giving her a grave look, and she kept their eyes locked. She would not allow anyone to treat her this way while awake, she was not to tolerate such misconduct in her dreams either.

"You have to forgive me, fair maiden," his voice was anything but remorseful, "But until I know that your intentions do deserve my grace, you have to allow me my mistrust. There is still a chance I am dying from my wounds in a delirium, and you are my figment of imagination, and not the opposite."

She opened her mouth to rebuke him, to tell him he had been dead for quite a while, although she seemed to remember that his death was indeed not instant, but suddenly she saw a glimpse of hope hidden deep inside of his eyes. And acute pity flooded her heart. He was scared, and confused, and she could imagine how feeling helpless and forsaken must have felt for this proud warrior. She was a woman and a healer, empathy was in her nature, and she softly exhaled.

"I cannot convince you, my lord, since I hardly understand anything myself. But let us agree to at least pretend to trust each other," she lowered her eyes, and suddenly he shifted and leaned ahead. He picked up her hands, her whole body jolted from the heat and roughness of his palms, and he gently pressed her fingers in his.

"Give me your word you are telling the truth, honourable healer, and I will try… to accept your words." His voice was coarse, and she returned his gesture, squeezing his digits and once again noticing the scorching skin.

"I give you my word, my lord, whatever I tell you is what I believe is true." He sighed and released her hands. They sat in silence for a few moments, he was staring at the wall behind her with unseeing eyes, she was discreetly studying his face. He looked healthy, approximately the same age she saw him portrayed in the drawing of the Dwarf named Ori during the Quest for Erebor, the same silver in his threads, black thick beard, and suddenly he shifted his eyes, and she blushed from his piercing gaze.

"How long have I been… gone in your understanding, honourable healer?"

"Two years."

"That is odd," he leaned back on the chair, and his palm lay on the table, she saw that there were no rings on his fingers. Altogether, except for the tunic and light linen trousers he wore nothing else, even in his hair there were no beads, which Wren knew was uncharacteristic for a Dwarf. He was bare in every way, his nakedness seemingly only covered for propriety purposes, while even his hair was unbraided. Another ridiculous thought visited her mind. He was very clean. His skin, nails, hair, everything seemed cleansed, fresh, and with all honesty such appearance was not to be expected from a man and from a Dwarf. Wren herself had an almost obsessive preoccupation with cleanness, but again she was a healer. And besides, it was in her character to execute control over her circumstances and surroundings. She was neat as a new pin, and somewhat apologetically annoying about it. She forced herself to stop studying his hand on the table, it was large and very wide, and she cleared her throat.

"What is odd, my lord?"

"Why do these encounters are happening right now? Would not they happen right after my demise if you were to play some role in the proceedings after?" She once again pressed her lips, thinking he was only seeing one possible explanation, but then she caught his eyes on her. She was shocked to see that they were mischievous, and one of his black brows suddenly twitched, "I have looked at your face enough by now, my lady, to understand that at the moment you are thinking I am being conceited..."

"Cantankerous was the word I was using in my head," she did not know where the boldness came from, and she blanched mortified. She just could not summoned what was going on with her. She had always praised herself on being cautious in her words and her conduct, but he was perplexing her, bothering her, and she just could not find her footing in this situation. He lifted his hand from the table and placed his fist in front of his mouth. She could still see the corners of his lips twitching in a suppressed smile. She could not believe it, he was not angry.

"So, if we accept that I am an arrogant oaf, and it is indeed your chess board," he gestured all around him, "what has recently happened to you, my lady, that you are now seeing a dead Dwarf in your dreams?" His tone was teasing. "Who is also by chance rather alive in here, since you do not speak Khuzdul and I seem to be teaching it to you." She chewed at her bottom lip. She had to admit, she had no satisfying explanation.

"Three moons ago I visited Erebor, my lord, but the dreams… I had had one the night before that, I saw your tomb in it." She gave him an awkward look. "I saw in it the details I could not have had knowledge of, but which later turned out to be true. And then in Erebor I got lost, and I saw your halls, and then the night after it was the one when we met first." She shifted on her chair in distress, but she thought she was to aim for honesty, "And looking back I have to admit… since the day I arrived to Dale, I have been drawn to your mountain. I have seen it in my dreams, and the rooms I saw in my dreams before… now I know they were to be found in Erebor as well, I just did not know that at the time."

"How long have you lived in Dale?" His tone was pensive, he was lost in his thoughts, his eyes shifting without seeing her.

"Almost seven moons. I arrived to Dale at the beginning of March. It is mid-September now, Autumnal Equinox. Why? Does it matter? Is the date important?" He gave it a thought, and then he shook his head.

"Nothing comes to mind..." He drummed his fingers on the table. "Is Autumnal Equinox significant to you, honorable healer?" Wren shook her head as well. She had been considering it as well. She eventually just assumed that the timing of their meetings was accidental.

"Well, honourable healer, since the two of us are as useless as Elf miners, we need to seek advice." She snorted, and he gave her a confused look. She blushed even harder.

"I apologise for my laughter, my lord, I just imagined an Elf miner." She felt endlessly awkward, she knew she had a strange sense of humour, and altogether he was hardly aiming to entertain her, but she had vivid imagination, and envisioning one of the Eldar, covered in grime and dirt, with a pick axe in hand, made her bit into her bottom lip to restrain her frolics. He blinked and stared at her. He probably used the expression without giving it much thought, and then one of the corners of his lips twitched.

"It is just an expression, honourable healer. 'Uthak fundu' in Khuzdul." She silently repeated the words, trying them on her lips, and he gave her an odd look she could not understand. "But back to the matters at hand. Since I seem to have little power in this situation, you will travel to Erebor again and will find Balin, son of Fundin. He was my trusted advisor for many years, and you will give him the account of our meetings."

His tone was commanding and leaving no doubt he expected her to comply with his orders. Asking for her opinion, apparently, did not even come to his mind. She was not sure herself whether she was going to argue with him or ask for more details regarding the task he was giving her, when his image wavered before her eyes, and she woke up.

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><p><em>Ra adjini tada zasaziliki e...  I'll hope you'll remember me…_


	7. Chapter 7

Three days later Wren put on her healer's robe again and walked to the Erebor Gates. It was clear she would be only allowed into the visitors' parlour, and from there she would need to somehow reach Balin, son of Fundin. She wondered whether the King, and she was still uncertain what she thought about the overall matter of her dreams, had thought his order through. And also, she wondered whether some sort of madness resided in her, she was following a command of a dead person she saw in her dreams after all. All of what was happening was very much possibly her delirium, and she could imagine that she was in reality wandering streets her eyes unseeing and talking to herself. Wren had always in her life relied on her mind. This seemed to be the matter of heart, her heart, that was telling her with all possible certainty that her destiny for some inconceivable reason became intertwined with that of the King Under the Mountain. Wren had to learn to trust her heart, and that was an endeavour on its own.

She entered through the Erebor Gates carved in the stone flesh of the mountain, the statues of the Dwarves of the Past on either side of the wide passage, menacing and glorious. Dwarves, Men and even several Elves were rushing by, there were rows of wide tables, a Dwarf behind each greeting yet another visitor, some receiving a payment after presenting a parchment, some taken somewhere inside halls. On the side there were large doors, with several intimidating guards standing at them. The door she used to sneak in last time was now guarded as well. Wren gulped and searched the chamber with her eyes. She needed to find a way to get through the first line of defense of the Mountain.

Among the guards at the doors one Dwarf seemed taller and more imposing than the rest, his armour more opulent, and she assumed he was a captain of sorts. She took a deep breath and approached him decisively.

"Forgive me, kind sir, but I have a delicate matter to discuss with one of the residents of the city, and I was wondering if it were possible to send a message to him." In her pocket she had a courteously written letter she had spent two nights on, writing and rewriting it numerous amounts of times. She needed Balin, son of Fundin, whoever he was, to come and talk to her, but she clearly could not disclose any of what she was to talk about to him from the start. He would doubt her sanity in the conversation, there was no need to start with mad rambling about his late liege in her dreams.

The captain gave her a stern look, and she withstood his studying, her heart beating frantically. "Is the aforementioned person expecting you, fair maiden?"

"No, but he would appreciate if you assisted me once he heard of my affair," Wren pulled out her hand and stretched it with the letter between her fingers towards the Dwarf, "His name is Balin, son of Fundin. And the matter I came to discuss is very important." She felt she sounded childish, and apparently the Dwarf shared her sentiment. He stood in front of her, without lifting his hand to pick up the letter. Suddenly she heard a few quiet chuckles behind her, and she saw two of the guards exchanging derisive looks, quite obviously at her expense.

"I will be honest with you, fair maiden," the captain's tone was increasingly venomous, "I doubt Lord Balin would be interested in anything a woman from Dale were to tell him." Wren felt her hands grow cold. That was her usual reaction to distressing situations.

"I assure you, Master Dwarf, Lord Balin would want to hear what I have to say." She pushed the letter towards the Dwarf in a decisive gesture, praying her hands were not visibly shaking. "Please, do pass this letter to him. It is an urgent affair and I will wait for his answer here." There were a few instants of pause, and then the letter was taken out of her hands. She twirled on her heels and went into a corner of the chamber. There was a bench near a wall, and she sat down keeping her face cold and her back straight. She could see one of the guards disappearing inside the passage behind the door with her letter in his hand, and she breathed out. She just needed to sit there and hope she was eloquent enough in her writing.

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><p>She was not. Five hours later she was tired and cold, and famished, and no answer came. The guards left and the new ones came, the captain left two hours into her waiting, he threw her a disdainful look and she jerked her chin up. Faces changed in front of her constantly, the Dwarves at the desks stopped staring at her, and every nerve in her body was trembling from humiliation and exhaustion. She had not slept the night before, and suddenly she realised her eyes were closing. Another couple of hours passed, and then a guard approached her. She recognized him from the morning, he was one of those who laughed at her.<p>

"Lord Balin is away on an important matter," he sneered through his teeth. She saw her letter in his stretched hand. It took her a moment to gather her strength and get up. Her knees were shaking.

"Do please ensure that this letter is left for him," her voice was trembling, but then she took a deep breath in and gave the guard a stern look. "Once he returns he needs to read it. And what is your name, kind sir? Once I meet Lord Balin I would like to mention to him that you were the person who ensured our encounter." She saw the Dwarf's face waver.

"Boin, son of Nar," he mumbled and then pushed her letter inside his brigandine.

"It's an honour to meet you, kind sir." She turned around and walked out of the chamber. She did all she could, and still, she felt like a failure.

Behind the Erebor Gates, she turned away from the path, maneuvering between carts and travellers crowding the paved road, and quickly walked into a grove on the side. She found a fallen tree and heavily sat on it.

Wren always found humiliation and shame harder to endure than loss and sadness. She cried for long, swallowing bitter tears and wiping her eyes with her sleeve. Somehow in all this discombobulation she managed to forget her handkerchief. One thought dominated her aggravation. How was she now to face the man in her dreams?

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><p>For the next moon neither the dreams, nor any news from Erebor came. Twice a week Wren would go to the inn she had met the two members of the King's company in the hopes to encounter them or any other of the twelve Dwarves who knew him personally. She was not certain how much she would share with them but she hoped they would help her reach Lord Balin. She did not succeed. The innkeeper informed her that none were seen there since she met them. She would leave hastily, not wishing to repeat the experience in Erebor.<p>

She would still go to the library often, the curator had taken quite a liking to her by then. She assumed few people would come to the library, and after a while she started bringing him treats and chatting with him amicably. His mind seemed rather scattered, but not when it concerned his books. He was of immense help when she would require a volume on a certain topic.

One night a dream came but she knew it was of the usual sort, something any other person could have. It was vague and hazy, not sharp as her encounters with the King, it had no physicality, she was wandering some shadowy passages, he walked in from of her, she reached and touched his shoulder, but there were no sensations, unlike the rough scorching palms she felt grasping her hands in those halls. She woke up softly, without a jerk, and lay in her bed, watching the sun rays crawl on her sill, caressing the leaves of the herbs in the pots.

* * *

><p>She was eating her dinner, once again lost in her thoughts, when Thea rushed in the inn, she never seemed to walk slowly, and dropped on a bench in front of Wren.<p>

"My darling, you do not look so well," Thea's tone was decisive. She was right, Wren had lost weight and slept poorly these days. She had had no beauty to tarnish before it, but she indeed looked even paler and thinner now. She was dreading nights, she had nothing to tell the stern King in them. "I decided I am taking over your affairs. Share your grievance with me."

Wren stared in her plate, the bread and cheese on it were hardly touched. "I do not have any grievances..." She did not sound very convincing.

"Poppycock, my darling," Thea picked up a circle of cucumber from Wren's plate and crunched it with gusto. "I am waiting, love, what is ailing you? If it is a man, I assure you I am your best chance for success." By then Wren knew there was no stopping Thea. She gave it a thought, she could use some help, she felt utterly lost.

"It is not a man, but… I need to contact a Dwarf in Erebor, but he is gone. Or at least they told me so..." She lifted her eyes at the woman in front of her. Thea encouraged her to continue with a flamboyant wave of a hand. "And even if I met with him, he might not be able to help me…" Thea tut-tutted and pointed at Wren's plate.

"Firstly, eat. You look like you are made of twigs these days. And secondly, what is exactly the matter? Let's look at its root. What are you trying to achieve in general?" The question felt like a bright flash in Wren's mind. Thea was right, she was looking at the matter from the wrong side.

"I need to talk to someone about the death of King Thorin II." Her calm measured words hung above the table like a ring of pipeweed smoke. Thea blinked several times.

"Maiar help me, chick, is anything ever simple with you?" Wren emitted a nervous chuckle and stuffed her mouth with bread. "Alright, then… Have you considered talking to King Bard? He accepts visitors every Tuesday. He knew the Dwarf personally."

Had Thea not helped her friend, that could have been the end of this story. The bread crumbs Wren choked on and Thea helped her to cough out could have ended Wren's adventure for good. Thankfully five minutes later she was still breathing and taking small sips from the mug an inn help hastily brought for her. It was Monday, and now Wren had plans for the next day.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: ****My darling Grammar Nazi A.****, you are of course right! Thank you for letting me know! The singular form of Dwarf would indeed be 'Khuzd.' I never even doubted myself, which once again reminds me that I should check this kind of stuff. I don't like the word though, I'll probably will stick with "of the Khazad" from now on. **

**I apologise to ****all my readers**** for the mistake, but I think I'll just leave it in my previous stories. I hope people prefer me to keep on writing further than going back to fix it in fifty stories minus modern AUs ;)**

**A/N#2: Just a small disclaimer than all my stories are AUs where the book and the films mix.**

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><p>Wren had four dresses in her possession, the healer's robe, two grey garments, modest and practical, and a dark blue velvet dress for the days like this one. She threw the cloak over it, October was approaching its end, and swiftly walked to the large house occupied by Bard the Bowman, King of Dale, his three children and the small group of his counsellors.<p>

Politics interested Wren not, but she had certain appreciation for the former bargeman. Wren had lived in Gondor and Bree, and she had noticed the differences between the customs and the ways between the cities of Men. Dale was being restored from ruin, and still it had a clean feel to it. Wren felt such was the desire of the people inhabiting it who had previously resided in Esgaroth where corruption and filth seemed to have penetrated every act and every relationship. Bard, though not of noble blood and having no such station in his past, seemed to have a propensity for rule, taxes and trade were strictly regulated and observed, fraud punished swiftly. Wren assumed that in a few years, perhaps a decade the unnatural saturation of the city would be gone, slumps and brothels would appear, bureaucracy and bribery would spread into all areas of life, as such was the nature of Men, but so far Wren was relishing her life in Dale. She had traveled the Middle Earth since she was thirteen, she was intending to enjoy staying in one place for as long as it was possible.

She entered the visitors parlour, and with apprehension she noticed nausea rising in her. She understood the experience in Erebor had affected her more that she had admitted, and the potential repetition of it irked her. She scolded herself, she should not have allowed such mawkishness in herself, she needed to keep her head high.

In the chamber she saw one table, with a young man sitting and scribbling industriously with a quill in a large volume. Wren cleared her throat, and the boy, he was hardly over eighteen lifted his face. He had bright brown eyes, clear and friendly, and she exhaled.

"I am here to see King Bard, if it is possible. I have a matter to discuss with him." The boy smiled wider and nodded.

"Please, sign your name and vocation in the book, if you can write. If not, I can do it for you, and that is the door," he pointed at a door to his right with the quill that he then handed to her. She quickly wrote her name and rushed to the door. She was censoring herself for agitation, but could not seemingly reign her emotions.

"Honourable healer," the boy called after her, and she stopped her hand on the ring on the door, "You are stealing my quill." She stared at the object in her hand, and suddenly she laughed. She had been so shaken and strained that she seemed to have forgotten herself. It was time to remember she was Wren of Enedwaith and not a frightened kitten. She returned to his table and handed the quill back.

"I am so rattled," she shared with the boy conspiratorily, "I have never met a King in my life." She shortly thought it was hardly true, she had conversed with a King before, twice, though there was still a chance she was mad as a box of frogs. That reminded her of the reason of her visit, and she took a shaky breath in.

"You should not worry, King Bard is a simple man. Just share your grievances openly, and he will help you." The boy smiled to her again, this time encouragingly, and she opened the door and entered the room behind it.

* * *

><p>Two people in the chamber were laughing, in quiet voices but gleefully. One of them, a young woman, almost a girl, Wren quickly assumed, was Tilda, the younger daughter of King Bard, she was about the age of fourteen or fifteen, and she had just poked the man beside her under his ribs. King Bard was still pressing his palms over his side, feigning pain and weakness. He was seated, mockingly slumping, on a chair behind a large desk, parchments and quills littering it, and his daughter was towering over him, her index finger lifted menacingly again. Wren realised she should have knocked.<p>

She made an awkward step back, when the King shifted his dark astute eyes at her and smiled. He had distinct masculine features and striking dark hair with noble threads of silver in them. He was a very attractive man, she had not been aware, and she felt immediately flustered. She had little practice in conversing with men outside her service.

"Alright, darling, off you go," The King got up and softly pushed his daughter towards the door. The girl snickered and rushed by Wren throwing her a short friendly look. Wren followed her with her eyes. "Good day, honourable healer," Wren whipped her head back and stared at him.

"My lord," she quickly curtseyed, and then she looked at his in astonishment, "But how?.." The King smiled and invited her to sit in front of the desk with a small wave of his hand.

"I have seen you in the city infirmary once, you are rather hard to forget, honourable healer. The hair after all does stand out among the Men of Dale." Wren suppresses a desire to smoothen her unruly curls. She spent an hour in the morning to braid her hair tightly, and yet her head was already surrounded by a halo of small copper springs. They sat, her before him, and she bit into her bottom lip. She had prepared a speech but the view of his intense dark eyes and bold features was jumbling her thoughts.

"How can I help you, honourable healer?" His tone was soft, he was obviously trying to hearten her, and she clenched her hands on the lap. She had prepared a smooth lie, but now the words were stuck in her throat. Something was pushing her to be open with the man in front of her. She suppressed the urge, she knew well that having a lonely life such as hers one tended to place their trust in wrong people.

"My lord, I have come for academic purposes," she started with her lie, and she just could not meet his eyes. "I have been studying volumes in the city library, I have fondness for history and learning of other races' cultures, and I was wondering if you could spare me some time and share some of your memories and thoughts with me. I understand you carry great responsibility and are very much preoccupied, but maybe I could come back at some favourable moment..." She finally made herself look at him, he was listening with an amicable expression, and she felt almost sick. He could refuse her, but that would make her feel relieved. She did not enjoy deceiving him.

"That is quite an odd favour to ask, especially coming from a healer and a midwife, my lady," there was good humour laced in his voice. She squirmed on her chair. Perhaps a bit of honesty could help her case.

"I had a chance to visit Erebor a few moons ago, my lord, and I found that whatever knowledge on the Dwarven culture we have in the volumes in the city library is rather lacking. So I was hoping… Since you took an active part in the establishment of relations between our cities you could perhaps tell me more."

"And are you planning to write a book, honourable healer?" Bard asked, his eyes studying her face. She felt blush rising, she was leading herself in a trap.

"Yes, my lord," she quickly decided to divert the conversation from the topic, "I am specifically interested in Dwarven medicine, battle injuries and such, since such is my expertise. You have taken part in the Battle of the Five Armies, and there were so many wounded. I was wondering if you could tell me."

"Would not asking the Dwarves themselves be more beneficial?" Wren had anticipated this question and had thought her answer through.

"I have tried, my lord. I have gone to Erebor again, a few weeks ago, and I was advised by several Dwarves to seek audience with Lord Balin, son of Fundin, since all who spoke to me assumed he would be most inclined to talk to me. But he is unfortunately away from the Mountain." The King was silent for a few moments, Wren's heart was beating frantically, but she showed little on her face. It was a crucial moment, she felt, and she needed to be canny.

"I remember Lord Balin well, we have spoken many times after the Battle," the King turned his face to the tall window, gloomy morning light streaming through clean glass, "He is a man of honour and great mind." He met her eyes again, and she saw him frown. "But I doubt the Khazad will be willing to help you in your pursuits, honourable healer. They are not fond of sharing their knowledge."

"I have assumed that much. That is why I came to you. You were there, there were probably healer's tents. Their King was wounded. You spoke to him before his passing." Wren was speaking in an even tone, almost disbelieving herself how much command she had over her voice and her face. "Do you remember much of how they treated him and his warriors?" She knew his answer in advance, but she needed to go through all the necessary steps. She felt she was playing chess, and she knew without false modesty she was good at the game.

"I am no healer, my lady, all I saw was wounds and blood and balms and bandages. I am ignorant in this, I can hardly help you." Wren lowered her head as if in disappointment, and them she fidgeted with the hem of her cloak, her agitation almost genuine, and then lifted her face, knowing well that her cheekbones were burning.

"Forgive me, my lord, but I have to also confess personal curiosity. I have read a few accounts of that time, and I am embarrassed to admit it, but the figure of King Thorin fascinates me. And one of the Khazad I spoke to mentioned you were present at his funeral." She leaned ahead, hoping that the look of idle sentimental curiosity she had practised in front of her mirror all morning looked genuine. "What happened then? What was it like?"


	9. Chapter 9

"Aye, honourable healer, I was there..." The King leaned back in his chair, his brown eyes on the window. Wren looked as well, the sun was dancing through the colourful pieces of the stained glass on the window sill. "It was a solemn ceremony, they bury their Kings deep under the Mountain, under a massive stone. He died as a hero, but there were still grievances unresolved between our peoples… Not everyone wanted to see Men there, to say nothing of King Thranduil..."

King Bard's voice trailed away, and Wren did not dare speak up. She knew of the circumstances of course, of how the Arkenstone, the King's Jewel of Erebor was in the possession of the Elves and Men, and how prominent the possibility of the war between the three races had been, if not for the appearance of the Orcs and the Wargs.

The man shook off his pensiveness and looked at her. "It was several days after the Battle and after he passed away. They had been preparing the tomb, and the stone for it, carving his semblance on it." Wren remembered her dream, the noble profile in white stone, the oaken branch shield intricately etched in it. Suddenly a knock at the door made them both turn their heads.

The boy from the parlour stuck his head inside, and after giving Wren a quick friendly look he whispered, "Forgive me, but there are merchants from Gondor… You said to let you know immediately..."

"Give me another minute," the King smiled to the boy, who nodded and closed the door again. "Forgive me, honorable healer..." Wren had already jumped up on her feet. He quickly followed.

"I have wasted a lot of your time..."

"I wish I could help you better..." They were talking at the same time, and Wren blushed and made a step back.

"Honourable healer..." She froze and looked at him expectantly. He was seemingly making some internal decision. "On Fridays I hold dinners with various townsfolk, I invite people to discuss the city affairs, and perhaps you could accompany the Chief Healer this Friday. I will write to him. And after it we could converse more... I will answer your questions, and..." There was uncertainty in his tone for the first time through this encounter, and she rushed to reassure him.

"Oh, I am endlessly grateful, my lord! I will be honoured. And thank you, thank you again." Her voice was ringing with sincere delight, and he smiled to her widely. He had a warm and open smile, and she could not help but return it.

"And I will write to Lord Balin, and a few other Dwarves who, I hope, would be willing to help you. Perhaps, some will meet with you. But do not expect them to answer soon, Dwarves take their time. And still, honourable healer, I would not hold a lot of hope." She nodded, and thanking him again and again she rushed to the door and out into the visitor parlour.

* * *

><p>A few tall dark-haired Men passed her, and she jumped away from their path. The door closed behind them, and she breathed out in relief. And then just because this visit was such a taxing affair, and she had been so apprehensive, and it went so well, she exhaled gleefully again and clapped her hands several times. A soft laughter came from the table, and she looked at the boy again.<p>

"You have a wonderful King, I have to say," she laughed as well, and he nodded readily. "Maiar, help me, I might consider staying in the city for all my life if that is our liege."

"Da is indeed a decent man," the boy was giving her a mischievous look, and she squeaked and pressed her hands over her mouth. She had not realised whom she was speaking to.

"Forgive me, kind sir," she hastily curtseyed, and he laughed loudly. "Such an insolence..."

"Do I suddenly look impressive to you, honourable healer?" Bain, son of Bard, was smiling to her sunnily, he had his father's smile, and she suddenly felt bold.

"I have to say you still look like a lanky youngling, honorable sir. And you do not spend enough time outside, if you ask for my professional opinion, you are too pale." This time they were laughing together, the boy dropped the quill on the table, and they did not stop even when a young woman entered the room carrying a roll of some fabric.

"Are you not supposed to be working on the register, Bain?" The woman's tone was good natured, and Wren choked at her frolics. Sigrid, daughter of Bard, had been renown for her beauty, and Wren wondered how she had not recognised her instantly after seeing her sister earlier. They had the same bright eyes, delicate features, opulent soft hair.

"I am receiving compliments in the place of our liege, Sigrid," Bain grinned to his sister, and Wren felt endlessly embarrassed. She seemed to be making a false step after another today. She quickly mumbled her thank you's and goodbye's and rushed out of the building.

* * *

><p>She returned to the infirmary the next day, and the Chief Healer confirmed to her the invitation to the King's House for that Friday. He sounded surprised and confused by why a simple healer was asked to join him, but from the formal point of view she was after all his apprentice, and the Chief Healer assumed the King was just trying to be courteous and considerate towards the poor girl. Wren did not deem correcting him necessary.<p>

She worked hard for the next two days, and at the evening of Thursday she was in her room cleaning the velvet dress. It was the only appropriate one, and she should not have felt inadequate, but an unfamiliar desire to look just a wee bit more attractive woke up in her. She was a reasonable girl and admitted to herself that she was clearly under the impression from the King. Vanity was not in her character, she knew how unassuming her looks were, but she suddenly lamented the dull dress. She spent a few minutes struggling with herself, and then decisively marched to her friend Thea's room.

Some loud noise was coming from inside, and Wren prayed to all Maiar she was not interrupting a lovers tryst. She knocked, and the door opened. Wren exhaled in relief, the room was full of winegirls who were drinking wine and chatting. They greeted Wren enthusiastically, and she waved to them.

"Thea, I am here just for a moment. Could I borrow a shawl from you? I am invited to a dinner with..." Wren did not manage to finish her request, Thea grabbed her hand and pulled her into the room. Wren quickly realised she was the only sober person there.

"Ladies, shush!" Thea's loud voice made the winegirls close their mouths and stare at her. "The world is clearly coming to an end, our little bird came for a beautification advice!"

"No, no, I just need..." Wren mumbled in panic, but the winegirls had already started cheering and clapping in delight. Wren understood she was doomed. She was seated on Thea's bed, they surrounded her, demanding explanation. Thea was already pulling out some garments from her numerous trunks, someone was approaching Wren with a brush, and she was ready to weep from embarrassment and terror.

"It is a formal dinner, it is not romantic..." She was trying to explain, but she was not heard. As soon as she mentioned the King's House, there started a lively discussion, mostly on which colour would suit her best, and one of the winegirls, her build similar to Wren's was sent to her room for dresses. Wren considered jumping out through the window. Through chatter and laughter she managed to catch Thea's loud glorifying of King Bard's merits, some of which Wren herself had not paid attention to during her visit and now could not stop thinking about, then other winegirls started mentioning his counsellors, someone even mused on his son's age, and Wren clasped her hands over her ears.

She managed to escape them only with the first light of the morning. Pins and ribbons were an unfamiliar bother in her hair, and she fell on her bed with a groan. An elegant emerald coloured velvet dress with an exquisite lace chemise were waiting for the evening on the chair, and she groaned again. The girls were so exuberant to turn an ugly duckling into a moderately swan like bird that, as much as she was resisting, the garments became a gift, as well as a modest pendant on a chain. All the winegirls' efforts were accompanied with terrifying threats of what painful and slow demise expected Wren if she were not to follow their instructions and even considered putting on her old dress. Wren closed her eyes and prayed Maiar for a peaceful passing in her sleep.

* * *

><p><em>Ra nî lomil tamhari, akhsigabi azâgê...  And if the night is burning, I will cover my eyes..._

* * *

><p>She was once again in front of the doors, and she pushed them. King Thorin II, son of Thrain, son of Thror was sitting at the table, his fingers impatiently drumming on the polished surface. He jerked his face up, and the pair of glacial blue eyes fixed on her. He was frowning, his lips set in an arrogant irked line.<p>

"What did Balin say?"

And maybe because Wren was still bedraggled by the evening with the winegirls, or perhaps because the images of another King, with soft respectful manners, and of another pair of eyes, greenish brown, warm and amicable, were still fresh in her memory, she lifted her chin haughtily and gave him a glare.

"Perhaps, a slightly politer greeting is in order, my lord." Her tone was venomous, and she did not shy away from it. Maiar help her, she had been through quite a lot for his sake.


	10. Chapter 10

"I suggest you give up on the idea of empty decorum, honourable healer. Mahal knows how long this visit of yours will last, and we have matters to discuss. So forgive my lack of manners, and do enunciate." She could not believe it! Not only he had not softened his tone, he was practically snarling at her.

"I have nothing to enunciate, my lord," she sneered through her teeth. "I have not achieved any success in the task you have bestowed me with." The glare of his cold eyes became even more hostile, and she clenched her fists. "I was not given a chance to meet Lord Balin, since as you have correctly observed in our first meeting, I am nothing but a scrap of a girl. They did not let me into the Erebor any further than the visitors chamber. And none of my letters were answered." She was watching him and could see he was trying to reign his temper as he should have from the start. She had no fault at her, and she had tried!

"What other steps have you taken, honourable healer? How long has it been?" It still felt like an interrogation, and she asked herself why she had even opened the door to this hall. Next time, she promised herself, she would not subject herself to this humiliation, she would only come in if she had anything useful to tell him.

"It has been over a moon, and I have spoken to King Bard..."

"What?!" His enraged growl made her stop in her tracks. "The bargeman?!" Anger and disdain danced in his eyes, his lips twisted in a derisive mocking grimace, and Wren had reached the limit of her patience.

"It is my King you are talking about. I am of Men of Dale and he is my liege! And the only decent man I have encountered so far in this cursed quest for your sake!" It was not true, she immediately thought, the two Dwarves in the inn were willing to help her, but the humiliation she had endured in Erebor was still fresh and painful.

"He is the last man you were to go to!" The King jumped on his feet and made two steps towards her. Though no taller than her he was intimidating, even knowing he was just a dream, she felt how much danger resided in him. "You were told to find Balin!.."

"You are not to tell me what to do! You are nothing but my nightmare!" She yelled back, and he winced away. She felt suffocated in this hall all of a sudden, and it felt so little like a dream and so much reminded of her childhood, being locked up in a cold room and deprived of any freedom, that she felt hysterics rising. "I had a peaceful life! I served, I had my room, for the first time in my life I found a place I belonged. I should be looking for a husband and not running around or sitting in libraries all night trying to uncover why you just would not die!" She saw she was wounding him, he was growing paler, his jaw clenched, but she did not care.

She felt terrified, her life was escaping her control, and just like in her parents' house she had no power over it. She had always made all her decisions herself since she had run away when she was thirteen, she travelled, she came and went when she felt it was time. She now felt Dale was the place to stay, and although she was hiding the thought even from herself, meeting King Bard reminded her she was after all a woman. She always knew passionate and tender romance was hardly in the books for her. She was unattractive, odd, and she knew herself her character was not among those that men found agreeable. She was wilful, stubborn and although it took a while she could be shaken out of her collectedness, and then an outburst would follow. Just like at the moment she was screaming at a ghost, her chest heaving and eyes narrowed.

On the other hand, surely there could be a reasonable man who would offer her a quiet home. Wren only wished one thing in her life, a child. She could cook, she had a respectable vocation, and her behaviour was not of wanton nature. A mature and serious widower would be a perfect match for her, she would be happy if he already had children as well. She was in no hurry, of course, it was not like her youthful beauty was withering. If she were honest with herself, she only mentioned a husband now as a figure of speech.

She assumed he would now remind her how trivial her claims were in comparison with his grievances, and how he had not chosen to visit her dreams, as opposed to some Dwarven healer who could do so much more for him, she was prepared for another outburst of his fury. She was not prepared for what followed. He swayed, closing his eyes in exhaustion, his noble face wan, and he had to place his hand on the back of the nearest chair to stay upright. She did not allow the same pity and compassion as before rise in her. She glanced at him and saw that his face remained arrogant, and he glared at her imperiously.

"You do not have much choice, honourable healer. Your quest for a good husband will have to be postponed." His voice was now weaker, she could almost hear a tremble in it, but the tone remained unpleasant, "You have been chosen to..."

"I was not chosen, it is clearly a mistake!" Her hands flew up in her common energetic gesture. "I am the least fitting person for this!"

"Stop interrupting me!" He bellowed and pushed away from the chair. He made a step to her, she shied away, and then the chair he apparently toppled fell on the stone floor with deafening rumble. They both looked down at it.

"You broke it..." Her voice was quiet and disbelieving, the midrail cracked and the spindles were now askew. "Do you have a habit of breaking furniture when you are displeased, my lord?"

He looked at her, looking suddenly almost embarrassed, and wiped his face with his large palm. "You bring out the worst in me, honourable healer. And I have never been in a situation that… I have never met a creature this infuriating before." She could not hold back a quizzical chuckle, he was putting the blame on her! And of course, she could never restrain her witticisms.

"Then you have not known that many women." It was his turn to look at her incredulously.

"That was hardly among my priorities, my lady. And I am afraid it is too late for it now." She was gawking at him while he bent down, picked up the chair and then invited her to sit on another one in front of him. She felt rebellious. Even now with his features softened and his tone milder, he was still irking her. She had tried, and though she could not say any grievances had befallen her for his sake she felt he could have been a bit more grateful.

"Just as you said, my lord, we do not know how long this encounter will last. I am just informing you that I have another meeting with King Bard tomorrow, and I am hoping to find out more about… about circumstances surrounding your funeral." His lips twitched at her words. "And he promised to write to Erebor for me. Perhaps, Lord Balin or someone else will be willing to meet with me."

"What did you tell him? Did you tell him of these dreams?"

"Of course not. He would think me mad. I said I was interested in Dwarven medicinal practices. I am a surgeon, it is hardly a lie." She jerked her chin up and was prepared to rebuke him if he dared mocking her, but he remained quiet studying her face. He had very astute eyes, piercing, and she felt uncomfortable under his scrutiny.

"I will be frank with you, honourable healer, I do not think it is the circumstances of my funeral, or my death for that matter that are to be inspected, it is my life. There must be an unpaid debt that has to be returned. You need to speak with Balin." He looked exhausted, thinned now, and she wondered whether she was imagining the changes from her previous encounter or he indeed was less corporeal now. "I assume I died with honour, I am probably buried under the Mountain..."

"In a tomb of white stone…" She added quietly, and he nodded.

"Where is my sword?" Something in his tone reminded her he was once a man of flesh, and she suppressed a smile. Men and their blades…

"It is placed on your tomb, to act as a beacon in case any danger is approaching Erebor." She saw a glimpse of warmth in his eyes, and the hand on the table twitch, probably remembering the hilt.

"And the Arkenstone? Has it been returned to Dain?"

"It is buried with you. King Thranduil placed it on your chest." He looked at her in surprise.

"The Elf gave it up? What did he ask in return?"

"I know little about it, my lord, I only know the destiny of the stone from the books in the library. A Dwarf named Ori described it in a scroll."

"Ori..." A small smile grazed the King's lips, and Wren once again felt amazed by how the smallest of smiles could change his face. "So he lived."

"They all did. All your company." The smile was gone, and his face grew dark again.

"Not all of them, not my sister-sons..." They were silent for a few instants, and then he shook his head slightly.

He stood his back to her, his hands placed on the table, and then he turned, and she met his blazing blue eyes. Her breath caught, from the open pain splashing in them, and she even thought she saw tears glistening in them.

"Help me, Wren..." His lips wrapped around her name for the first time, and a shock ran through her body. "You are the only one who is here. I know you think it mistake, but there must be design behind it. Help me..." He stretched his hand to her, and she placed her fingers on his palm. They held each other's gaze, and then she gasped and opened her eyes.

* * *

><p><em>Ra adjini tada zasaziliki e...  I'll hope you'll remember me…_


	11. Chapter 11

The dinner in King Bard's house turned out to be a simple and merry affair. Wren first felt rather discomforted, she wore the dress the winegirls gave to her, and she felt the ribbons and pins in her hair were excessive, trying to make her look more attractive, she felt, was like decorating a dry twig with a Summer Solstice wreath, but soon she had forgotten about her aggravation. She was seated between the Chief Healer and the wife of one of the King's counsellor, a round merry woman, who only wanted to talk about her children, which for Wren was the perfect subject to discuss. Between conversing about children's diseases and teething pains Wren had not noticed how the dinner was over, and men moved to the parlour to smoke and talk. Women stayed behind, more conversation on children and housekeeping ensued, and Wren sat quietly in the corner, on a settee with King Bard's daughter Tilda, and she felt sleepy from abundant food and the warmth coming from the fireplace, when Tilda touched her sleeve shaking her out of the pleasant daze.

"You are Wren, the healer from Enedwaith, are you not?" The girl had laughing bright eyes, and Wren smiled to her.

"Yes, I am."

"Da mentioned you," the girl's face had a mischievous expression, and Wren blushed furiously. Surely she had no reason to, because the girl meant nothing by it, but Wren had never had much control over the colour of her cheeks. "So you have travelled here to serve?"

"I have. I lived in Gondor before, and now I am here."

"But you are staying, right?" The girl moved closer, and Wren did not know what to think.

"Tilda, I am certain honourable healer feels suffocated by now. Any closer, and you will be sitting on her lap," the King's older daughter came up to them from the fireplace she was standing by, talking to some other women. Wren knew Sigrid had been married recently and with light envy Wren saw how she was now accepted into the circle of other women, while Wren and Tilda were sitting aside. On the other hand, Wren found the situation rather comical. Wren has crossed the half mark of their third decade, most of the women in the room were younger than her. "You have to forgive her, honourable healer, she is having ideas." This statement did not bring any relief to Wren. Neither did the same mischievous light dancing in the eyes of the older King's daughter. Wren squirmed on the settee.

At that moment the door to the parlour opened and a few men returned. The King was among them, and he searched the room with his eyes. Once he noticed Wren, he stretched his hand to her.

"Honourable healer, would you join me in my study for that discussion I have mentioned before?" Wren felt mortified, she was worried to turn and face the girls, and she felt she almost had to explain to them that they had a wrong impression from what was happening, when she heard a squeal from the younger one, and with terror Wren realised it was a happy one. She rose on her feet and dashed to him, ignoring the murmur behind her and the burning of her cheeks.

* * *

><p>His study was a large room, walls covered with bookshelves, much more homey than the one he accepted visitors in, there was a doublet thrown on the back of a chair, it was obvious he spent a lot of time in the room, and she felt she was intruding. He apologised for the disorder, quickly threw the doublet somewhere behind his large desk and invited her to come in.<p>

To reign her emotions she allowed herself some exploration, and her eyes roamed the room. On the wall she saw a small oval portrait of a young woman, the same eyes as his daughters, hair in soft waves.

"Is that your wife?"

"Yes, I commissioned it two years ago. It was drawn from memory." She stopped in front of it.

"She was a very beautiful woman. How many years has it been?" She felt acute sympathy to him, he was looking at the portrait with genuine melancholy.

"Almost ten years, Tilda was not even five when it happened. The vile air of Esgaroth, she died of consumption." Wren nodded solemnly, it was a very common cause of death in Esgaroth even now.

They were looking at the portrait, and Wren realised he was standing rather close. And she realised it was hardly unpleasant. She obviously did not think of him as a man, but she liked the thought that if ever she were in a romantic situation with another, it would seem she could enjoy such physical closeness. She turned her head and met his eyes. He softly smiled to her, and she returned the expression.

"Well, honourable healer," there was some new intonation in his voice, "Shall we converse about Dwarven healing practices or you think you could talk honestly to me now and tell me what it is you really need?"

Wren's eyes widened, and her breathing hitched. All she could think in panic was that it was her own stupidity and mawkishness that once again led her into this trap, just like in Erebor when she wandered away. And now she was facing the King, his face slightly mocking, dark eyes fixed on her. She swallowed with difficulty, her mind frantically searching for a fitting lie.

"Wren..." He drew out, and her body jolted. For the second time in a few hours her name would fall from the lips of a man, while years had passed since she heard it the last time in the same circumstances. "I doubt there are some ill intentions behind your inquiries. And you can be open with me." She dropped her eyes, and thoughts whirred in her mind. She could disclose some truth, not all, but she could tell him she had a letter from King Thorin, as an example, tell him she needed to pass it to Lord Balin, or something of that ilk. And then suddenly King Bard's firm hand lay on her upper arm, and she lifted her face to him. He was towering over her, but she felt no intimidation.

And then she realised the position they were in, and she felt terrified he would think it was why she searched his audience, that she was attempting to titillate him, and she rushed to reassure him.

"I do need to know about King Thorin, and the funeral, and Erebor… And the Arkenstone..." He looked at her slightly frowning, and she went on, "But it is a secret, and not mine to share… I gave my word to help, but it is no machination, and I do not have any ill intentions… I promised to help, and I have to try..." She needed to convince him, and her hand lay on his as if without her will, "I am begging you to believe me, my lord…" His eyes roamed her face, and then he glanced on her small hand covering his. The features of his masculine face softened, and he gave her a small smile.

"I believe you, honourable healer." She exhaled in relief, and he stepped away from her, his strong large hand sliding from under her palm, "And I will tell you all I know. But know that my knowledge is lacking. I had the people of Dale to worry about at that time, and the war was only just over..." He walked away from her and invited her to sit on an armchair in front of his desk. "I do know that they did not lie to you in Erebor. I received a letter this morning. Lord Balin is indeed away from the Mountain. But there are others who could help you. If not the Dwarves, then others perhaps… Gandalf the Grey, the wizard, would know much more than I do, and possess much more wisdom that I ever could." She smiled to his modesty, and he gave her a small nod. "I could write to him, I have heard he is in Ithilien now. There is the unrest on those borders, they say the attacks from Haradrim have redoubled, and the Rangers are constantly under strain there… And there is always King Thranduil..." Wren looked at the man in confusion. "It is just a few days of travel, Mirkwood, it is much safer these days, and he rarely accepts visitors, but I could write to him as well, asking to assist you, and hopefully he might consider seeing you."

Wren's mind raced. Gandalf the Grey had been King Thorin's companion, she knew of their disagreement at the end of the quest, but he was knowledgeable, and who but a wizard would be able to help her in matters of dreams and ghosts? On the other hand, a letter reaching him in his travels was a rather hopeless business, especially in far away Ithilien. She could always try to travel there herself, attempt to find him, but he was elusive like wind, she knew that much of his kind. Mirwood, on the other hand, was indeed very close, but the idea of meeting the King of Wooden Realm terrified her. For an instant she felt acute desire for her life to return to its simpleness and serenity of those days when she knew nothing of King Thorin. And then she berated herself, there was no use in such thoughts.

"So, my lady," King Bard's voice shook her out of her stupour, "What is it going to be? Ithilien or Mirkwood?"


	12. Chapter 12

And that was the moment when with all possible clarity Wren understood that she was seeing the dead Dwarven King in her dreams, and he was as real as the man standing in front of her. Wren realised she could not give King Bard the answer to his question as it was not her decision to make.

"I thank you, my lord, for all the help you are offering. Would you be so kind as to write a letter to the Mountain, to Lord Balin and ask him to meet me? As for your letters to Gandalf the Grey and King Thranduil, is it possible to ask you to wait a bit until I know for certain how to proceed?"

King Bard was studying her face and then nodded. She curtseyed gratefully and was going to leave his study when he gently picked up her hand.

"Wren, do give me your word that if you are forced into something that you are not willing to do, you will tell me so and will ask for my help."

His eyes were warm, and suddenly Wren could see a man behind the title. A father of two daughters, she thought, he perhaps saw in her another girl to protect and aid, and for an instant she felt like confiding in him and sharing her difficulties. And she even thought that perhaps there was a chance he would believe her, after all he met King Thorin when the latter had lived, and Wren now knew a lot of details that could serve as a proof. And yet she took a small step back pulling her hand out of his warm strong palm. She told herself such decision were not to be taken rashly, but she knew she would not change her mind, and no considering it would make her share her secret with any other but Lord Balin or any others King Thorin were to choose. She knew she would lament the comfort King Bard was offering, but she was adamant.

"Thank you, my lord, I give you my word to turn to you if any distress befalls me." She heard herself how hollow and insincere her voice was, and after a few moments of tense silence King Bard nodded surrendering to her determination.

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><p>The evening was over, guests were saying their goodbyes, and Wren hastily thanked the host and his kin. She once again felt that King Bard's children might have had some very much erroneous notions about her, and her cheeks were burning headily while she quickly wrapped into her cloak and left their house.<p>

She returned to her inn, cowardly sneaking through the backdoor, hoping to escape the winegirls who would definitely want a detailed account of her evening. She dragged the new dress off, pulled the pins and ribbons out of the hair, scattering her curls on her shoulders and scraping her nails on the scalp with a groan. She had a burdensome amount of hair, her curls were thick and unruly, and she sat by the window brushing them.

She could see the street underneath, a town guard passed with a lantern, people across the street were having late supper, through the curtain on their window she could see candlelight flickering. She looked back and as if for the first time she saw her life in all its simplicity, the way it was displayed in her belongings. A trunk with a scarce garments, books filling it and scattered all over the table, a towel and a few toiletries by the sink, her drawings, quills and pencils on the sill near her. That was her life, simple and unambiguous. And although at times it was empty and lonely, Wren felt that it was safe and invulnerable. She knew who she was, she was Wren of Enedwaith, a healer and a midwife, and at that moment all her future life lay in front of her like a straight and sun lit path in the woods. She were to live and to serve, and either to meet a respectable man, leave her service, have his children, still attend to women in the city, and then die in their marital bed, surrounded by children and grandchildren, or to stay unattached and continue her service till the day the gates to the Halls of Awaiting were to open for her.

Nothing in the bare and cold room in the inn in Bree were to indicate that she bore any sort of extraordinary intendment. And yet, when she climbed under her covers and closed her eyes, she knew for certain there would be heavy doors in front of her and she would be once again offered the choice of entering them and facing the grim Dwarven King.

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><p><em>Ra nî lomil tamhari, akhsigabi azâgê...  And if the night is burning, I will cover my eyes…_

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><p>"Oh, Wren!" He was sitting on one of the chair, and the eyes he lifted at her were sparkling with glee. "I was given a harp!" His voice was merry, and he lifted the instrument and showed to her.<p>

She froze in the doors, staring at him in disbelief. He seemed completely content, and his fingers ran on the strings, and then he tenderly stroked the neck of the wooden instrument. His eyes were soft and warm, and she could not gather her wits.

"This time I was given more time here, alone, before you came, and I practiced," he was fiddling with the tuning pins, and then he lifted his face and smiled to her amicably. "I cannot say I would prefer staying here alone for long, but a bit of idle time was a pleasant surprise. How long has it been for you?"

"Just one day," Wren heard her answer come out in a croak. "I have just returned from the dinner with King Bard." The Dwarf in front of her nodded noncommittally and gently plucked the strings again. It was hardly a melody, but there was a harmony in the sounds. "I told him nothing, and he asked how I wanted to proceed, and I said I would need time to decide. I needed to ask you what to do..."

He lifted his face, and his blue eyes were shining brightly. She felt flustered, the surprise and delight on his face were what she indeed was inspiring to see, and then she immediately felt irritated. She had to think it was degrading to her, her attempts to please him so eagerly, and then the corners of his lips twitched, and she felt blush creep on her cheeks. Somehow she was certain he could clearly see all her emotional struggles, and he looked rather amused. She pressed her lips stubbornly.

He patted a chair near him, and she slowly came up to him, half fighting the urge, half longing to sit closer, and once she perched herself on the edge of the chair, he ran his fingers on his harp.

"What options has the bargeman offered you?" The knee block of the harp lay on his shoulder, she saw intricate carving on the pillar and the neck of it, and she could not tear her eyes off his fingers. Though they were thick and his palms wide, the movements were precise and delicate, and she did not know where the urge came. She stretched her hand and touched his right wrist. The hands on the instrument halted. The skin was scorching, she felt the thick black hair under the pulps of her fingers, and she jerked her hand back.

"Forgive me… It was so unseeming…" She was mumbling, clenching her fingers, "I do not know what came over me… but I just needed to make sure..."

"That I was concrete?" His voice was raspy, and then he cleared his throat and chuckled. "That was quite an absurd statement." She looked in his eyes and saw mischievous sparkles dancing in them.

"You feel concrete." She almost added 'no less than King Bard,' but bit her tongue on time.

"You feel cool," it was his turn to stretch his hand, and he picked up her fingers. He wrapped his digits around hers, her hand looked miniscule on his palm, and she conceded. It felt corporeal, more than it should in a dream. And it was pleasant. She bit into her bottom lip. Her stubborn character and sober mind did not allow her deceiving herself, it felt exhilarating. She was still looking at their hands, when he shifted and moved the harp away from him.

"Wren..." Her name fell off his lips again, his voice velvet and low, and she shivered. She gathered her will and met his eyes. "Thank you for your help." She blinked and jerked her hand back.

She wondered if she jumped up and ran through the doors whether she could wake up. She felt such charring, painful shame that she had to bite into her bottom lip again, her whole body was shaking, and she pressed her knees together. She was internally screaming, calling herself the worst of names and scolding herself for stupidity. She shortly wondered if tears were already running down her cheeks, but then she took a deep breath in and clenched her jaws. She told herself she just needed to finish this conversation, and then she would wake up and cry as much as she wanted.

"Gandalf the Grey," she choked out, and King Thorin's eyebrows twitched in surprise, "King Bard offered to write to him, I have not disclosed why I seek knowledge on your death, but he offered to try to reach the wizard. And King Thranduil, I could go to Mirkwood, but I assumed you would not want that..." She was speaking quickly, trying to silence panicked thrashing thoughts. Anything was better that the humiliation that was flooding her mind.

"Perhaps we should wait for an answer from Balin, but writing to the wizard could not harm..." The King's tone was pensive, and she started slowly rising. He looked at her, and his brows hiked up in surprise. "Honorable healer?"

She immediately realized how absurd her behaviour was. It was not as if she was actually visiting him and could find a polite excuse to leave. The dream would end on its own pace, but she just could not seem to calm herself. She got up, he followed, and she rushed to the tapestry on the wall. It was the only object in the room she could pretend to be interested in. She stood in front of it and made herself read the names on it, and then once again, trying to distract herself from the tears burning her eyes and to forget that single short moment when she was dim enough to imagine he wanted to kiss her.


	13. Chapter 13

He stood beside her, his eyes upon the tapestry on the wall, and she looked at him discreetly from the corner of her eye. She had reined her emotions by now, and only a weak fluttering in her chest was still a reminder of the moment of madness she had had.

She allowed herself a few instances of watching him, her eyes as if drinking in the long straight bridge of his nose, surprisingly fluffy lashes, thick and black, and seemingly coarse whiskers above his upper lip, and then she looked down and cleared her throat.

"When I meet Lord Balin, or the wizard, what do you think it is that will have to be accomplished?" She did not finish the thought, a cold feeling clenched around her heart once she was reminded that the purpose of her quest was to allow him to pass away completely.

"I would assume there are some matters that I have not addressed," he slightly turned to her, tilting his head and giving her a soft look. "Perhaps some debt I have not paid… Balin would be able to bring this matter up with the elders, and I am starting to think now that Tharkûn will be a great asset in this endeavour…"

"Tharkûn?"

"The grey wizard, that is his name in our language. As this is no simple matter, it is beyond mundane life, he is to be consulted." Wren nodded solemnly, and then she heard a soft chuckle from him. "Do you have anything else to tell me, honourable healer?" His tone was light, and she looked at him askew. She asked herself whether she was imagining a small smile hiding in the corners of his lips.

"I do not believe so, my lord," she answered feebly, and then no doubt was left in her mind, the corners of his lips indeed twitched. There were impish sparkles dancing in his eyes, and she blushed furiously.

"And yet you are still here."

She noticed the crow's feet in the corners of his piercing blue eyes, and then he leaned in and picked up her hand again. A shiver ran through her body, and it took a lot of effort for her not to jerk her hand away. On one hand, he was affecting her immensely, and as much as she was resisting, she was starting to understand that the unfamiliar feeling in her was nothing other but preposterous, conceited, hopeless yearning. On the other hand, her stubbornness was pushing her to desist these sentimental urges and to pretend she would be able to forget the feeling of his calloused hand against hers. She intended to thwart her ridiculous bathos. He was a Dwarf, a King, and deceased. Surely, either of these reasons should suffice.

And, she reminded herself, he was not touching her hand in actuality, her mind was creating this illusion, instigating these sensations. There was no scorching palm, no strong fingers, and a thumb was not stroking her knuckles.

"Perhaps we are given this time to know each other better, honourable healer," he softly pulled at her hand and led her to the chairs. He was behaving unmannerly, and there was an apology laced in his expression, but she had a sudden revelation. He only knew the moments when she was near, and how empty they were to feel! Anyone in his place would crave a touch, even an otherwise undesirable one, and she squeezed his fingers in a supportive gesture. They sat, and she folded her hands on her lap.

"Tell me of yourself, Wren." He encouraged her with a small wave of his hand, but then his face wavered. "And forgive me..."

"No need for apologies, my lord," she interrupted him, and then shied away. Now it was her turn to behave improperly, it seemed. He opened his mouth to say something, but then he shook his head and smirked slightly.

"I was born in Enedwaith," she started hastily, and he looked in her face attentively. "I went travelling when I was thirteen, and I came to Dale to serve. I am an apprentice under the mentorship of the Chief Healer in the city infirmary."

"Are you married, Wren?" His voice was even and quiet, and she even doubted right for an instant whether she heard him.

"No, I am not." As usual she had little power over her fatuous sense of humour, and she giggled. One of his brows jumped up, and she tried to hide her foolish frolics under a cough. She was unsuccessful.

"Are you imagining how a husband would react to his wife seeing a dead Dwarf in her dreams?" The white teeth gleamed in a warm smile, crinkles ran in the corners of his eyes, and she could not suppress a snort.

"Or to his wife running errands for the said dead Dwarf?" She laughed now, he joined her, she could not help but marvel at his full body laugh. The wide shoulders under the soft tunic shook, and he dropped his head back, eyes squinted, teeth white and even. He then leaned ahead, the curtain of heavy silk waves fluttered, and he threw the threads that fell on his face in an obviously habitual gesture. And then he choked on his low chuckles, and stilled. She quieted too and looked at him in confusion over his sudden change of mood.

"The beads," he explained in a hollow voice, "The lack of braids is..."

"Unfamiliar?" She asked, and he nodded. "You could possibly… braid it." He was silent for a few instants, and then shook off his grim inertia. He met her eyes again and smiled to her teasingly.

"And what of the lack of boots, honourable healer? Do not misunderstand me, I am grateful for the harp, but the lack of shoes is disturbing." He was back to light jesting, and she smiled back to him.

"I am not in any control here, my lord. If I knew whom to appeal to, I would be happy to request a more adequate attire for you."

"Some pipe-weed would be favourable here too," his smile grew wider, and she snorted and then schooled her face in a feighted reproachful expression.

"Do you know what it does to your lungs, my lord? You already probably have miner's lung, you do not want emphysema!" He guffawed, and she grinned to him. "What am I to do with a coughing, ailing Dwarf in my dreams?"

"I am dead, honourable healer," he deadpanned, his eyes brilliant.

"Not at the moment, you are not," she answered without thinking, and then a pause hung in the room.

"Indeed I am not." She shortly wondered whether she imagined his voice to be lower, his eyes roamed her face, and she blushed again. "To think of it, I am having the most idle time of my life. I have no quest to take, no Kingdom to rule, no dragon to slay. I am in a warm comfortable hall, I have a harp and a conversation companion. Pipe-weed is a glaring deficit here, honourable healer." He gave her an impish look.

"Confess, my lord, you would not say 'no' to a barrel of ale either," she theatrically frowned at him.

"I would not," his shoulders started to shake again.

"Still harmful for your health," she drew out.

"Still dead," he gibed back, and they roared with laughter. The frolics rolled and rolled, her side was starting to hurt, and she grasped the edge of the table. She was growing weak from their ridiculous howling, and he grabbed her forearm supporting her. Her palm lay on the soft fabric of his tunic, and somehow it only added to the absurdness of the situation.

"And why are you dressed so scantily, my lord?" She rasped, not being able to catch her breath.

"Why are you asking me?" His voice was no less choked from laughter, "It is your dream. Shame on your, honourable healer!" This caused another bout of frolicking, until she felt she had no strength left in her body. Her abdomen hurt, she could almost feel tears pooling in her eyes from all this laughter, and he was taking shallow sharp breaths in, low rumbling still rolling in his chest. And then she realised he was supporting both her forearms, while her hands was firmly clasped around his.

She lifted her eyes from looking at her fingers digging in his massive forearms, and suddenly he pulled her towards him and to his lips.


	14. Chapter 14

He pulled her to himself, she froze in an awkward pose, on the very edge of the chair, and his lips were pressed to hers. She was so astounded that she kept on staring at him, while he closed his eyes. His lips were soft and warm, the breath fresh, and she wondered whether it would have been, were they to kiss in actuality. It was after all just a dream. Piercing sadness flooded her, and she felt tears roll onto her eyes. His hand was on her nape, and she moved closer, closed her eyes and melted into the kiss. She caught the fresh spicy smell of his skin and prohibited herself from thinking it was nothing but her imagination. Her palm lay on his shoulder, she felt hard scorching muscles under the soft material of the tunic, and when she splayed her other hand on his chest, it heaved in a sharp inhale. She had only kissed one other man in her life, but even she could tell the dead King in her arms was inexperienced. He was a fast learner, though, and then he shifted, picked her up under her arms and pulled her on his lap. It should not have felt so right, but in the ring of his strong arms, in the heat coming from his body, she suddenly saw how flawlessly she fit.

He moved away, his forehead still pressed to hers, and she saw the black lashes flutter, and then the bright blue irises, and he met her eyes. They both were silent, there was nothing to say. And then a small melancholic smile twitched the corners of the King's lips.

"Do you think I am an equivalent of a harp then?" She asked, her voice trembling, and he sat up straighter, his eyes studying her face. "A succour? A small consolation in your aggravation?"

She knew the tears were on her cheeks, and his eyes were wet as well, and then he brushed the running drop off her skin with his thumb, and suddenly smiled to her widely.

"Do not be dim, Wren." It was a new tonality, kindred and almost playful, familiarity of it shocked her, and she stared at him. Something about it felt so natural and mundane, as if said before, as if to someone of the close, and she sobbed and hid her face in his shoulder. His palm started stroking her back, and she was taking deep measured breaths in. There was nothing to say, they both knew how absurd it was and how right it felt.

"Stay like this until..." He trailed away, his voice soft and low, and she nodded, turned her head and pressed her nose into his neck. The strong pulse beating under his skin was rapid, and she closed her eyes, trying to memorise every little sensation. And then it blurred, and faded…

* * *

><p><em>Ra adjini tada zasaziliki e...  I'll hope you'll remember me…_

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><p>She slowly opened her eyes and looked at the bleary light of the morning streaming through her window. Grey heavy clouds were covering the sky, and she did not feel like leaving her bed. Her heart ached dully, and she curled in a ball, her arms around her knees. The room around her felt cold and bare, and she pulled the covers over her head.<p>

The dreams did not come for another two weeks, and Wren stubbornly pushed the thoughts of the lonely King at the back of her mind. She felt almost grateful for the design of it, he would not suffer in that empty hall, she had her life, he would only know the moments with her. She studied in the library, when the service did not require her presence in the infirmary, often forgetting her meals and staying until dark. Whatever was known and recorded in the volumes seemed to indicate the King was right. There must have been some unpaid debt on him, something that he had not succeeded to accomplish, and the Elders of the Khazad were to be consulted on the matter. Wren was hoping a letter from King Bard would be an incentive enough for Lord Balin to meet with her. She also let King Bard know that she would like him to send another letter, to the Grey Wizard, seeking his counsel.

Her life seemed to go the habitual way, but felt as if faded, as if that was the dream, and not the desolate hall in her mind, inhabited by a ghost of a King. She was invited to a dance by Thea, and she went. She loved dancing, but the mood did not strike this time. She sat in the corner most of the evening, watching couples twirl on the floor. She had overcome her sentimentality by then, having successfully reminded herself numerous times that there was no use in thinking of the man who was constantly on her mind these days in terms applicable to any other couple she could see around. Hers was not a story of love, tenderness and passion. Hers was a sad hopeless story of a girl with a task. And if she, so it happened, was foolish enough to allow her heart this futile longing, she was to bear it in silence. The ache was subdued and almost numbing. There was nothing to be done.

* * *

><p>And then a letter came. She was invited to Erebor to meet Lord Balin personally, and she spent the evening and the night before the appointed date contemplating what she had to say.<p>

This time she was immediately shown through the inside doors of the visitors parlour, the same captain who had allowed himself those derisive looks last time gave her if not respectful, but at least a polite bow, and she was ushered into a large chamber with settees and chairs, clearly intended for more private negotiations. She did not dare sit and stood her hands locked behind her back in her habitual nervous habit. She was also rocking on the heels of the feet, when another door opened and two Dwarves came in.

She could not decide which one of them impressed her more. The taller one was fierce looking, his bald head was tattooed, his body massive and eyes piercing, and she recognised him as Dwalin, son of Fundin. She recalled the drawings of the Dwarf named Ori in one of the volumes, and then she suddenly pieced together her own memories, and realised that she had met his brother, now standing near him, previously. In her first visit to Erebor, in the hall with the display of weapons and King Thorin's last armour, Balin, son of Fundin was the Dwarf who had supported her, leading her out, jesting and teasing her. She bit into her lip and gave him a shy look. His dark, astute eyes ran her face.

Bows were exchanged, polite greetings ensued, and she was seated on a settee with Lord Balin near her, while his brother stood by the wall, his arms folded on his chest. Wren's trained eyes noticed the knuckles that would never heal now, bones distorted by numerous battle injuries, and the stiffness of the left shoulder. Lord Balin bore no less scars, and she thought of the sincere affection dancing in King Thorin's eyes when mentioning the Dwarf in front of her. She took a deep breath in and gathered her will.

"My lord, what I have to say will sound preposterous, but I am begging you not to haste with your judgment." He gave her a slow nod, the dark irises sparkling, and she fisted her hands. "I have had a... vision, involving King Thorin II Oakenshield." She was starting to shake but nothing changed in the polite expression on her conversation companion's face. "He let me know that he is unable to pass into the Halls of Awaiting as there is some unfinished matter that is to be attended. He asked me to pass this message to you in hopes you would be able to converse to your Elders and assist him." She was silent and still now, her eyes roaming the Dwarf's face, but still he was not responding. She was starting to panic, when she heard the Dwarf by the wall shift. She looked at him and saw the enraged expression on his face. It was almost a relief, anything was better that the decorous interest on the older Dwarf's face.

"Are you mad, lass?" Dwalin, son of Fundin growled through his teeth. Wren felt almost merry, but that was probably hysterics.

"I would surely prefer to think that way, Master Dwarf, but unfortunately I am healthy in my mind. King Thorin asks me to tell you he cannot pass into the Halls of Awaiting." She repeated, lifting her chin and meeting Dwalin's burning eyes.

"She is surely muddled, nadad," Dwalin addressed his brother, and Wren turned to look at Lord Balin. Some indistinguishable emotions were in his eyes, and he slightly tilted his head, giving her a curious look. He reminded her of an owl. The round dark eyes, white feathers of the hair and the forked beard, and the same amount of danger of a predator hidden under a seemingly pleasing exterior. Wren clenched her jaw and waited for his answer.

"What connection do you possess to King Thorin, me lady? Besides lurking in the halls commemorating his valour in battle." So he remembered her.

"None whatsoever, my lord. I was as surprised as you to be appointed his messenger but here I am."

"And what of King Bard? He personally recommended us to meet you in his letters." She guessed they suspected some treachery from Men. That would be unsurprising, they were Dwarves after all.

"None whatsoever again, my lord," she answered defiantly. "I asked him to contact you as I was refused your audience previously."

"You have been refused upon my decision, me lady," Balin's voice was still even and friendly, and Wren was painfully reminded that they were Khazad, they had different ways. She had no chance in these negotiations. "I have received your letter but it seemed rather unconvincing. I apologise," he gave her a polite nod, which felt like a slap. She understood that she would be asked to leave any instant now, and she felt humiliated blush spill on her cheeks. Even her ears were burning now, and she was ready to jump on her feet. But then the memories came, of the soft look in his blue eyes, and she suddenly remembered that the man in her dreams had no one other to trust his destiny to. Wren narrowed her eyes and squared her shoulders.

"King Thorin has warned me that you might be uthak fundu at the beginning," _as useless as Elf miners, _she could clearly envision his soft lips wrap around the phrase, the consonants roll in his throat, and she hoped her pronunciation was convincing. Judging by the jerk of Lord Balin's body and the twitch of his lips, and the movement of his brother by the wall that she could not see but felt, Wren was as usual rather good at languages. "On the other hand, he assured me you would come around."

There was a pause, and Wren waited. She had nothing to lose, and as much as she wanted to deny it, she was fighting for the sake of the man whom her heart was slowly giving itself to. She had nothing to lose, and everything to fight for.

"He was always fond of this expression," Lord Balin's voice was quiet, and Wren realised she won at least in this round.

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><p><strong>AN: My darlings, I apologise for the long wait for this update, as well as some of my other fics. I'm experiencing some personal grievances, and _Faire and Square_ was all I wanted to write as it is light and worked as a perfect distraction. I will now get back to the Hogwarts story and _convince me the winter is over_. Thank you for sticking around and for all the encouraging reviews!**


	15. Chapter 15

**A/N: Just the reminder that I tend to mix the book and the film canon. I have been disappointed in the third film, mildly speaking, so I am not following some of PJ's changes made to the original.**

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><p>"Surely you do not believe her, brother," Dwalin walked around the settee and stood in front of Wren. She lifted her eyes and met the burning glare of Dwalin, son of Fundin, loyal warrior, King Thorin's lieutenant. For him, she thought, the King had been dead for two years, she still remembered the taste of his lips. "Clearly she is out of her mind. A scrap of a girl from Men, why would Thorin?!.." His brother lifted his hand in a warning gesture, and Wren shifted her eyes on the older Dwarf.<p>

"As you can see, it is hard for us to believe you, honourable healer. Or would have been, if such affairs had been unheard of." Dwalin froze with his mouth half open and then his head whipped to look at his brother.

"Surely you do not mean..." Dwalin growled, and Wren interrupted him.

"Are you referring to the legend that states that the spirit of each of the Fathers of Dwarves should, at the end of the long span of life allotted to Dwarves, fall asleep, but then lie in a tomb of his own body, at rest, and there its weariness and any hurts that had befallen it should be amended?" Wren asked, and received a small smile from Lord Balin.

"And then after long years he should arise and take up his kingship again, aye," he nodded, and Wren shook her head.

"Forgive me, my lord, but I doubt that the legend meant it to happen to a simple King, other than one of the Seven Fathers, and indeed not after a couple of years..." She bit her tongue. She was supposed to convince them to listen to her and to take her words seriously, and now she was disproving their theory that could have earned her their trust, but it just did not deem right to her. She peeked and with surprise saw approval dancing in the mischievous eyes of Lord Balin.

"A simple King?" He tilted his large head, and it seemed that an almost smile was twitching the corner of the Dwarf's lips. "How would King Thorin react if he heard you calling him that?"

"He has heard worse from me, I was not very pleased to find him roaring in my head," she blurted out, and a pause hung in the room.

"Oh be done with this nonsense!" The massive arms of Dwalin flew up in exasperation, and he pointed at her with his spade like hand, "Why are you listening to her, brother?"

"Because Thorin would want us to. And we have to be loyal to him. The reward for loyalty is a place in the Hall of Awaiting, brother," Balin had slightly turned, and his eyes were on his brother's face, and he could not see Wren's body jerk. Before he had finished the phrase, she already knew how it ended.

"Radm khama amnas yud ni Itdendum," she whispered, and they both turned sharply and looked at her. She smiled widely, "It all makes sense now. I could not understand why I was not given any means to convince you, but I was!" She even laughed slightly, and suddenly she grabbed Balin's hands. "My lord, he comes to my dreams. He asks after his sister-sons, and I have nothing to tell him. He asked about the Arkenstone, and I had no answer for him. He played harp for me… He needs you to let me speak to the Elders. There is a debt on him, and he needs to pay it. He fought with honour, and he deserves his peace. Give it to him. It is in your power to let him rest." She did not notice when tears started running down her cheeks, but her voice was firm. "He earned his place in the Halls of Mandos. Help me to help him."

She did not know how the confidence arose, and where the words came from, but she was smiling to Balin through tears, and he pulled one hand out of hers and covered her knuckles.

"Aye, lass, I will," was his answer, and she did not need any other. His brother dropped his arms and made a scornful snort like sound, but Wren gave him a smile as well. She did not fail her King.

* * *

><p>She was given food, and a courtier was sent to the Elders. She ate, and Lord Balin was keeping her company. She could hardly swallow a piece, but she knew that she would offend their hospitality had she refused.<p>

She took a small sip of ale and started coughing loudly. She could never stomach much brew, and Lord Balin gently patted her back. He was sipping wine from his goblet, his armchair across a small table from hers.

"What did you see in your dreams, fair maiden?" His tone was nonchalant, but the lightness of his question did not deceive her.

"The hall where you met me for the first time, my lord, but in my dreams it is empty, just a large table and chairs." She fidgeted with a slice of cheese in her fingers.

"Aye, it was supposed to be a council hall, the armour and the weapons were placed there after the burial," the Dwarf's voice was soft and melancholic. They sat in silence for a while.

"The King told me there was nothing after the moment he had charged out of the mountain in his memory. He did not remember the death of his sister-sons, but there is a tapestry on the wall of that hall in my dream. The dates are there..." Lord Balin nodded mournfully.

"Kili and Fili… They fell in the last fight, they had fought by his side. Their bodies were found on the battlefield after the fight had ebbed."

"And him?"

"Beorn the Skinchanger carried his dying body out of it." Wren had read and heard of the Skinchanger, he was now the Great Chief in the Vales of Anduin, his Woodmen were on guard of the lands to the North of Dale. "He spoke to us before… before he joined Mahal's guard." Wren had always considered the Dwarven euphemism for dying rather poetic. They were so fond of fighting that hoped it would continue even after their demise.

"I have read of the burial. Of the sword and the Arkenstone placed on his chest. I believe some of the guards of King Bard spoke, he would not discuss it himself." Balin gave her a slightly sarcastic look, Wren did not expect any fondness for the King of Men from the Dwarf. "Is Erebor at peace now, my lord? Is it prosperous?" It was a rather rude question to ask a Dwarf of his home, and especially when asked by a woman of Men, and she hastily added, "He will ask me when I see him." The Dwarf's dark eyes were fixed on her face, and she could not quite understand the expression on his face.

"You truly do believe you see him, my lady." Balin's voice was laced with amused disbelief, and Wren felt almost merry.

"He is rather hard to ignore, my lord. He tends to lose his temper quickly if I do not listen or do as he says. Have you ever tried not believing in the existence of a war horn blowing into your ear?" Balin shook his head at her antics, and she quickly busied herself with another slice of cheese.

"As much as I want to believe you, honourable healer, I find a certain flaw in your story," there was new softness to Balin's voice, and Wren lifted her eyes at him. "There is no debt on King Thorin. After I received your letter I had given it a lot of thought. He fought bravely, he was the true King to his people in those hours, he made peace with his friends, he had forgiven those who he thought had wronged him, and he was forgiven in return. He left an heir of Durin on his throne, Erebor is being rebuilt, and life went on." Lord Balin folded his hands on the table in front of him. "Mirkwood, Dale, Esgaroth, Erebor, the Beornings… There is trade, barges run the River, King Thranduil and King Bard are in friendly relationships, and King Dain rules Erebor… He is a true son of Durin's folk, he lacks the worldliness of King Thorin, but he will bring the Kingdom to prosperity."

Wren listened holding her breath. She felt she could now read between the lines guessing the hidden meaning of the words of careful sectarian Dwarves, and she could see what Lord Balin spoke of. The life went on, making King Thorin nothing but a memory of turbulent days, and heroic past, and a dragon, and the battle. These days Erebor was just another Dwarven Kingdom, its inhabitants bigoted and narrow-minded, the true meaning of the Quest of Erebor living in the memory of ten Dwarves.

And then she remembered. It was not just ten Dwarves. There was a wizard and a hobbit.

"I have written a letter to Gandalf the Grey as well, my lord. I want to seek his counsel, and King Thorin supported me in this idea."

"Aye, that might be wise." Balin nodded and then gave her a look askew, she thought she saw a gleam of mischievous light in his black eyes. "Although I would refrain speaking of King Thorin as if you two have just had a discussion of plans over tea." Wren bit into her bottom lip bashfully. The memories of last night were still fresh in her mind, and the events of her last dream only contributed into her embarrassment.

At that moment a courtier returned to show them to the halls to speak to the Elders. Wren rose, feeling anxious but determined. Unlike Lord Balin, she knew that whatever the explanation there was an undead King in her dreams, and one way or another she needed to help him.


End file.
